


Valediction

by hanap



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Ancient China, Ancient Egypt, Ancient Mayan Civilization, Ancient Rome, Aziraphale Has Feelings (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Not Oblivious (Good Omens), Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, F/M, First Kiss, Genderfluid Aziraphale (Good Omens), Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Historical References, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, M/M, Mecca, Medieval England, Minor Original Character(s), Mutual Pining, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), Unresolved Sexual Tension, ancient history here we come, medieval ages, so much longing, we are going all over the world in this one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:41:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 46,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22167301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap
Summary: This is my first work for the GO fandom! It's going to start out with the scenes we see in the show and will start deviating from canon as the fic progresses.Come find me onTwitterandTumblr!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 98
Kudos: 88





	1. The Garden

_Prologue: The Garden  
4004 B.C._

The guardian of the Eastern Gate stood atop the Wall, watching the two humans walking farther into the desert, the dismay in his eyes only thinly veiled. He took little notice as scales rasped against the stone behind him.

An enormous serpent slithered beside the guardian and raised its head. The angel’s thoughts were suddenly diverted from the humans as the serpent began to shift into the form of a man.

_Demon._

The angel had not been acquainted with many demons before, but always, there was something about them that was intrinsically horrifying, as though their physical manifestations always retained vestiges of the horror they endured when they Fell. Permanent marks that could not be concealed easily even with their demonic powers. To see them was to know they were damned.

He watched as the black and red scales rippled out of sight, the serpentine coils shimmering into a human shape, and was suddenly gripped by something akin to terror. In vain, he tried to draw his sword, but his hand closed around empty air.

Quickly, he tore his gaze from the once-serpent, but his eyes were drawn back to the majestic wings that unfurled against the clear sky, the black feathers shimmering in the sunlight. Astonished, his gaze trailed down, taking in the red markings on the sleeve of a grey robe.

The demon had auburn hair that lay in curls on his shoulders. He was turned away from the angel, toward the vastness of the desert, and when he spoke, his voice was a low murmur. The mark of the snake, entwined about itself, was branded on his right cheek.

So distracted was the angel that when the demon finally turned to face him, repeating his words, he scarcely heard them. His attention was held entirely captive by the unblinking gaze of the serpent. Golden eyes with black slits for pupils, almost hypnotic in their beauty. The angel could not look away now from the demon’s face, terrible in its uncaring magnificence.

“I don’t see what’s so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil, anyway.”

“Well, it must be bad…”

The angel did not know why he hesitated at that moment, but strangely enough, it was as if the demon knew what he was asking before the angel knew it himself.

“Crawly.” The demon’s lips curved up as he graciously inclined his head.

A fitting name for the Serpent of Eden. _Cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life_. This must be a truly fearsome demon, to have caused the downfall of the Almighty’s greatest and most precious creation.

How, then, could he be so _beautiful?_ The angel found himself not repelled, but rather captivated by the golden gaze that marked his demonic nature. He forced his eyes away from the demon, bewildered and half-frightened. At first, he could only stammer in response, but as the demon continued to speak, it dawned upon the angel that the demon was putting into words his own silent consternation when the two humans he had so painstakingly watched over had been banished from the Garden.

He was terrified by the thought.

“It’s all part of the Great Plan. It’s not for us to understand.”

The angel saw that the demon was tempting him, as he had done with the humans, with his beauty and with his honeyed words, sowing doubt into his heart. He was pleased at this realization, but as he spoke, the demon’s eyes betrayed that he was not listening to a word the angel was saying.

“Didn’t you have a flaming sword?”

The demon’s sharp gaze pierced straight through the angel, who floundered for a response. He was a principality entrusted with the guardianship of the Gate, and he had faithfully done his duty since the First Day. Yes, he had a sword, of course he had one, why would he even ask? Trapped as he was by the curiosity of the demon, unable to think clearly when those golden eyes were so fixed on him, he could not give any answer but the truth.

“I gave it away.”

The angel was righteous, anxious as he was. He could not have allowed his charges to depart from their sanctuary, completely vulnerable to the dangers beyond the Wall. But as soon as he had spoken, he was struck by fear, to have spoken so openly to a being who, by definition, was his hereditary enemy. Was this part of his demonic wiles, to tempt the angel into speaking against Heaven?

“I do hope I didn’t do the wrong thing,” he whispered, half to himself.

“You’re an angel.” The demon watched him, his head tilted, as though he couldn't quite understand him. “I don’t think you can do the wrong thing.”

How peculiar to receive reassurance from a demon, the angel thought. Perhaps he shouldn’t feel as comforted as he did, but he was. It was puzzling to be on Earth. It was nothing like Heaven, where the separation between good and evil was clearly drawn, as obvious as day and night. Here, at times, he could not even see where the boundaries lay.

“It’d be funny if we both got it wrong, eh? If I did the good thing and you did the bad?”

Even as he rebuked the demon, there was a secret relief in his heart, to know that he felt it too – the strange sense that their reality as they had once known it had suddenly lost all delineation, leaving them with no other frame of reference other than each other.

As their conversation lulled, drops of water began to fall from the sky. The demon shivered and edged closer to him, as though suddenly fearful. Without thinking, almost instinctively, the angel raised his wing over the demon to shelter him from the rain. They stood close together, watching the two humans, now nearly indistinguishable in the distance, with only the light from the sword to guide them through the coming night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first work for the GO fandom! It's going to start out with the scenes we see in the show and will start deviating from canon as the fic progresses. 
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


	2. Mesopotamia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crawly’s eyes were no longer as serpentine – they now appeared almost human, though the black slits in the gold remained. As Aziraphale watched him out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Crawly hadn’t seemed to fully grasp the finer details of seeming human just yet. He was standing far too close, his gaze candidly fixed on Aziraphale, his emotions playing out on his face much too openly.

_Mesopotamia  
3004 B.C._

The angel was in agony. How had he been able to utter the truth to a mere demon, the serpent of Eden no less, and not to the Almighty Herself? Even after a thousand years, still he was unable to find an answer. In the meantime, Heaven had issued him his new orders: remain on Earth and continue to watch over the humans.

As time passed, he began to live among the humans as though he were one of them, rather than simply observing them from above. Slowly, he learned how to properly dress his corporation, how to best speak to the humans – highly dependent on the age of the human in question – and even how to walk and carry himself so as to seem nonthreatening. It was enough that he no longer stood out among them. He was simply just another human in their midst.

Occasionally, something would catch his eye – a string of amber beads, or a pattern of scales on a bangle. Once, he found his heart pounding at a flash of bright red hair in the marketplace. He chided himself for these moments of weakness, for allowing himself to be caught off-guard by such trivial details, though even now, after so long, the memory stirred in him something strange and nameless. It was like hunger, like pain and joy and despair all together, all at once.

Still, he was dutiful, longing as he always had for Heaven’s approval, and here he was at his latest assignment. Gabriel had left his instructions – two of each animal, male and female, as well as some extremely detailed blueprints on the proper architecture of an enormous ark. But now as he stood watching its construction, in a crowd of onlookers thoroughly amused at what they perceived to be a family’s ridiculous antics, he suddenly sensed a _presence_. He looked over his shoulder uneasily.

“Hello, Aziraphale.”

He whirled around and saw, to his shock, a pair of golden eyes watching him unblinkingly. He found that he could no longer hold their gaze. The mere memory of those eyes was enough to dredge up the guilt, the shame of that day so long ago, when the Almighty had asked him what he had done with the flaming sword he had been given.

“Crawly.” He inclined his head warily.

Crawly’s eyes were no longer as serpentine – they now appeared almost human, though the black slits in the gold remained. As Aziraphale watched him out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Crawly hadn’t seemed to fully grasp the finer details of seeming human just yet. He was standing far too close, his gaze candidly fixed on Aziraphale, his emotions playing out on his face much too openly.

“They’re drowning everybody else?”

Aziraphale nodded, registering with confusion that Crawly seemed genuinely lost at this new development in the Great Plan. He watched Crawly more closely now, puzzled at his reactions.

Crawly whipped his head around at the sound of the laughter of children, chasing each other among the animals that were lined up in pairs. Aziraphale saw as he turned that the auburn hair was plaited, the braids loose and uneven. One tiny flower was fastened into the thread that held the longest braid in place.

“Not the kids,” Crawly said suddenly, turning back to Aziraphale, his eyes wide with disbelief. “You can’t kill kids.”

Once more, Aziraphale nodded, but he could no longer keep the concern from showing on his own face. He had reacted exactly the same way when Gabriel had brought the news, though of course not so openly as this, and it was bewildering to see his own emotions reflected on Crawly's face. He watched as Crawly’s hand crept up, his fingers worrying at the end of one braid.

“Well, that’s more the kind of thing you’d expect my lot to do,” Crawly said woodenly.

Aziraphale noticed that Crawly was still watching the children with a stunned expression on his face. As before, Crawly doubted the intentions of the Almighty, and as before, Aziraphale rebuked him for it. But this time, a strange thought occurred to Aziraphale. Was there a possibility Crawly might actually feel some sort of attachment to humanity, despite being a demon? Were demons even capable of such a thing? Aziraphale was suddenly unsure.

“Why was the Almighty so specific about there being two of each animal? And why did they have to be a male and a female?” Crawly asked abruptly.

Aziraphale fidgeted under his unblinking gaze, baffled by the question.

“Well, there has to be a way for them to repopulate the land once more, after the storm,” he ventured uncertainly, wondering if Crawly was mocking him.

“What does that have to do with them coming in pairs?”

“How else would they reproduce?”

Aziraphale turned to look at Crawly, whose head was cocked to one side as he watched the animals steadily making their way to the ark, two by two.

“What do you mean, reproduce?”

As Crawly turned back to face him, Aziraphale was astonished to see the confusion in his golden eyes. Did he truly not know?

“To reproduce means to make, er… make more of each other. The way humans do with children.”

Crawly’s brow remained furrowed, as though he were thinking hard, but he was quickly distracted by one of the unicorns galloping away from the procession, shouting reassurance at Noah’s son that at least they still had another one. Aziraphale could not help but linger on the line of his jaw, and the burnished red curls that now cascaded past his shoulders, framing his face. He wondered for the first time what it might be like to run his fingers through the softness of those curls, and flushed at the thought.

A loud thunderclap interrupted Aziraphale's embarrassment. As he lifted his eyes to the rapidly darkening clouds, he mourned within for the humans surrounding him, for the young children running amongst the animals without a care in the world. He knew it was not his place to question the Great Plan, yet he grieved.

“What a terrible fate,” Crawly murmured, as though echoing Aziraphale’s inner turmoil. To his surprise, Crawly tugged out the tiny flower in his hair and cast it on the ground. He raised his serpent’s eyes to the heavens, and the first drops of rain fell upon his face as though they were his own tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapters are getting longer and longer, so stay tuned! 
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


	3. Golgotha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It no longer caught Aziraphale wrongfooted to find Crawly suddenly standing close behind him, clad in a plain black robe, its hood carelessly pulled over his ruddy hair. After so many millennia of being assigned on Earth, it was inevitable that they would occasionally run into each other in between centuries, particularly at what would become turning points in history. But even after all this time, the golden gaze still held him spellbound.

_Golgotha  
33 A.D._

As the centuries passed, Aziraphale found that there were many things he needed to learn in order to conceal his celestial identity from the humans. As a being of heavenly love, he possessed a kind of natural magnetism for humans; they gravitated towards him the way sunflowers turned their faces toward the sun. Humans in his presence would feel a spontaneous bent towards goodness, and the angel’s propensity for compassion made interactions with him a pleasure. Though he performed many minor miracles without the knowledge of their beneficiaries, he came to be known in the community for his kind words and readiness to provide assistance.

It was not uncommon for a basket of fruit to be pressed into his hands by a grateful neighbor. Loaves of bread, carefully wrapped in cloth so that they were still warm, would be delivered to his home in time for supper, sometimes with a small jar of olive oil.

It was thus Aziraphale learned to eat as humans did. The bread and oil had puzzled him at first, but the aroma when he uncapped the jar was unlike any he had smelled before. He held the jar to his nose and inhaled. It was a fragrance like light, and the freshness of green things growing in the earth, a simple yet complex scent. He tore a small piece of bread with his fingers as he saw the humans do and dipped the bread in the oil. Hesitantly, he nibbled at the bread before he put it into his mouth. The pleasantly light taste of the olive oil spread on his tongue as he chewed and swallowed. It was a delightful sensation altogether. He ate and ate, until he was content. The young mother who had baked the bread awoke the next day to find that her son, who had been ill in bed for over a week, was miraculously cured.

Keeping up the appearance of slumber was another matter altogether. Aziraphale did not sleep, but it had become a topic of discussion among the townsfolk that their neighbor seemed to have a strange light burning in his home at all hours of the night. He spent most of his time at night poring over various texts, his room lit by an ethereal white light, the glow of which was visible from the windows. He took to simply covering them at night, as he had no desire to sleep, unlike the pleasure he found in eating.

And so it went, until the angel was nigh indistinguishable from the humans around him. It never ceased to amaze him, the things that humans could come up with in their vast capacity for creativity and innovation, as the Almighty had made them. Yet, the way a coin has two sides, humans had an equally great capacity for ingenuity in their acts of evil.

Aziraphale winced as the man groaned in agony, a nail driven deeply into his wrist. It was near intolerable to watch, but he had known the man personally – had a great deal of respect for him, in fact, and not just as the Son of the Almighty – and that was enough for him to stand in the crowd, as one of the greatest humans he had ever known was nailed to a cross for telling his fellow men to be kind to one another. The angel flinched as the hammer came down, again and again, the man crying out in anguish. It was a terrible sight, and not even the sudden voice at his left ear could distract him completely from it.

It no longer caught him wrongfooted to find Crawly suddenly standing close behind him, clad in a plain black robe, its hood carelessly pulled over his ruddy hair. After so many millennia of being assigned on Earth, it was inevitable that they would occasionally run into each other in between centuries, particularly at what would become turning points in history. But even after all this time, the golden gaze still held him spellbound.

“I’ve changed it,” the demon said suddenly.

“Changed what?”

“My name.”

This brought Aziraphale up short. Why in Heaven would he change his name? He was the serpent of Eden, after all. No amount of time spent in his human form would change that.

“What is it now, Mephistopheles? Asmodeus?”

The angel bit his tongue at his own lame attempt at levity, as the groaning of the dying man continued to echo in his ears. The demon did not even deign to notice his discomfort, his gaze fixed on the hammer as it rose, and fell.

“Crowley.”

Not all that different, but the change was enough. Whom he once beheld solely as a demon of Hell had been rechristened, as though he now also belonged to Earth in some measure. It unnerved Aziraphale somewhat. The act of Naming was a power reserved and exercised exclusively by the Almighty, and then by the humans, after She had bestowed it upon them. It was a responsibility and force of such gravity that it was part of the supreme act of Creation. Suddenly, Crowley’s renaming carried more weight than Aziraphale had thought, and he wondered if Crowley had considered it at all – that in taking a new name, his identity had altogether changed. No longer was he only the serpent of Eden, as his original name had signified. What was he now, then?

The question left a flutter in Aziraphale’s chest. Crowley’s capacity for compassion had always struck him as strange, something a demon should not possess. Demons were unable to love. They had been cut off from love after they had been cast out of Heaven. Yet even now, Crowley stood beside him, a frown creased between his fierce eyebrows, unflinching, but not deriving any pleasure at the sight of the hammer falling, rising, falling again.

“Did you… ever meet him?” Aziraphale asked quietly.

“Yes. He seemed a very bright young man,” Crowley mused. “I showed him all the kingdoms of the world.”

“Why?”

“He’s a carpenter from Galilee, his travel opportunities are limited.”

He pondered on Crowley’s words. Surely, he had meant to tempt the Son by showing him everything in the world that he might possess with the power at his hands, yet the way it had been phrased spoke of something else. Had Crowley only wanted to share his knowledge to the bright young man, who would have had no way of learning those things on his own? He chanced another look over his shoulder at Crowley. The intensity his chiseled face normally bore was softened by the look of pity in his golden eyes. The cross was raised from the ground as the man nailed to it cried out in pain one last time. The angel and the demon stood in silence, shoulders nearly touching, as the light of the setting sun spilled over Calvary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


	4. Rome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale stuttered as he spoke, noticing for the first time the details of the black robe Crowley wore, a bright scarlet pattern traveling down the edge of the black cloak thrown casually over his shoulders. So reminiscent of another dark robe marked in red, in another time, long ago. Flustered, he took a sip of wine instead. But for the first time all afternoon, Crowley’s attention was fixed on his face, studying him intently even through the darkness of the lens.

_Rome  
41 A.D._

Aziraphale was rather enjoying his time in Rome. In some ways, it reminded him of Greece – that had been a splendid era where works of art and literature were concerned. He had particularly loved the mythos of the Greek gods and goddesses – nowhere near accurate, of course, but the stories were lovely. His favorite one was the love story of Hades and Persephone. He didn’t believe for one moment that Hades had abducted Persephone, not when he was the most decent god-figure of the three brothers. Was it so wrong for Hades to desire Persephone just because he was the lord of the Underworld and she, the goddess of spring? It was strange how the story had been twisted over the years.

As he sat in a tavern, his thoughts wandering as he puzzled over the quickest way to win a game of _latrunculi_ , a lull in the din caused a disdainful voice to drift in his direction. He looked up, searching the room, and a flash of a silver headband caught his eye. He left his seat and approached the bar, his game completely forgotten.

“Give me a jug of whatever you think is drinkable,” the man said, slouching on the bar.

“Craw – Crowley?”

His head had been shorn of the long curls in favor of a more fashionable cropped cut, the silver headband wreathing his head contrasting sharply with the auburn. Crowley wore dark glasses, obscuring his eyes from view, with a silver chain brooch in the shape of a serpent pinned to his robe. Joy filled Aziraphale’s heart, unprompted, and he could not keep the smile from his face. It had been only eight years since Golgotha, and he had not expected to see Crowley again for several more decades at the very least.

It seemed, however, that Crowley was not as thrilled to see him. He made no motion of acknowledgment whatsoever, but he at least did not object to Aziraphale taking the seat next to him at the bar. He merely gestured for another cup and poured both of them a drink from the steaming jug of mulled wine he had just been served. Since on all occasions it was Crowley who initiated conversation, as he was wont to appear without any sort of warning, Aziraphale supposed it was his turn this time to make an effort, since it was he who had approached Crowley.

“Still a demon, then?”

“What kind of stupid question is that, still a demon – what else am I gonna be, an aardvark?”

Crowley was in an unusually taciturn mood. Aziraphale took the berating with good grace.

“ _Salutaria_ ,” Aziraphale said, the smile still on his face. A part of him wondered if he should have just left, as Crowley plainly wasn’t in the mood for company, but he couldn’t have possibly gone back to _latrunculi_ if he tried. Not if Crowley was sitting in the same room, just a few feet away.

Crowley paused and deigned to clink his cup against Aziraphale’s own before taking a sip. He leaned forward on the counter without a word, resolutely not looking at the angel beaming next to him.

“In Rome long?” Aziraphale asked, undeterred, and quickly took a sip of his wine.

“Just nipped in for a quick temptation. You?” Crowley answered, with a languid glance over his shoulder.

“I thought I’d try Petronius’s new restaurant. I hear he does _remarkable_ things to oysters.”

Aziraphale lifted his cup to his lips, but before he could take another sip, Crowley tilted his head to the side thoughtfully.

“I’ve never eaten an oyster.”

It was certainly not the response the angel had been expecting – if anything, he would have not been surprised at Crowley’s refusal to speak at all.

“Oh, well, let me tempt you to –“

At that reply, Crowley turned in his seat, squarely facing the angel now, his eyebrows raised. The silver glint of the serpent flashed in the light of the sun.

“Well, that… that’s your job, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale stuttered as he spoke, noticing for the first time the details of the black robe Crowley wore, a bright scarlet pattern traveling down the edge of the black cloak thrown casually over his shoulders. So reminiscent of another dark robe marked in red, in another time, long ago. Flustered, he took a sip of wine instead. But for the first time all afternoon, Crowley’s attention was fixed on his face, studying him intently even through the darkness of the lens.

“I’ll find you later then, angel?”

He turned toward Crowley, startled at the endearment – if it could be indeed called that. He was literally an angel, after all. Crowley had allowed the dark glasses to slide further down the bridge of his nose, the unblinking serpent’s eyes surveying Aziraphale at length.

He could never refuse Crowley, could never resist the pull of those eyes, endless in their depth.

“Don’t be late, dear fellow. I hate to be kept waiting.”

The words left his mouth before he could think, and a flush rose to his face before he could prevent it. His breath caught in his throat as Crowley raised the cup to his lips. Aziraphale watched him swallow and set the empty cup down before he spoke again.

“Just say the word, and I’ll be wherever you want me to be.”

* * *

It was half an hour before dinner, and Aziraphale’s hands were trembling somewhat. Perhaps he had been thinking overlong on the conversation they had had earlier that afternoon. He had been attaching too much meaning to Crowley’s words, when he had meant nothing but the usual social niceties. Should he perhaps change his golden brooch? He fussed in front of the mirror for another fifteen minutes before he realized he would soon be late for their scheduled meeting. That was all it was after all – a meeting. Social calls were but a part of professional courtesy, after all.

Anxious as he was about being late, he arrived half a minute later than they had discussed. To his surprise, Crowley was already seated at a table for two, with two cups and a jug of wine before him. After a series of confused, half-finished apologies for the delay, Aziraphale finally took his seat next to Crowley, who promptly placed a steaming cup before him.

He inhaled deeply before taking a sip – the spices transformed the otherwise lackluster wine into something worth drinking, he thought. Crowley was already refilling his own cup.

“You weren’t waiting long, I hope?”

“Nah. I finished up a temptation before coming here and stumbled into a _ritus graecus Cereris_ by mistake. Bit of a pinch, that was…” Crowley trailed off suddenly.

“The Greek rites of Ceres,” Aziraphale said slowly. “Is that what they’re calling Demeter these days?”

“Yes. Funny how these Romans are importing Greek cults, eh? They’ve even brought Pluto and Proserpina into the picture again. If you remember those stories from before.”

Aziraphale was momentarily disoriented. Just a few hours ago, he had been thinking the same to himself. Pluto, dragging the innocent goddess Proserpina into the depths of Hell in a chariot of fire.

“Pretty good story, if you ask me. Shame they seem to have gotten it all wrong,” Crowley said, his eyes fixed on his cup. “The first version of Pluto wasn’t half bad.”

“I do remember,” Aziraphale replied, still somewhat lost in his own thoughts. “It certainly wasn’t as terrible as they tell it now. They originally seemed quite taken with each other, in their own way.”

Crowley looked up at him quickly, but before he could speak, a plate of oysters was placed before them. Aziraphale could not deny how deliciously tempting they looked, juicy and fresh and arranged so beautifully on the plate. He reached for an oyster before he turned a questioning look at Crowley, who had not made any movement to take one for himself.

“Won’t you try one? They’re what we’re here for, after all,” Aziraphale smiled gently, gesturing at the plate. Crowley, however, shook his head minutely, his fingers clasped around his cup tightly. Aziraphale’s mouth turned down, not quite understanding. Crowley had learned to drink in the millennia that had passed, but it seemed he had still not quite developed a taste for food. How strange – why then had he come here at all?

Aziraphale lifted the oyster to his mouth and gently sucked it free from its shell, the scent of the sea flooded his mouth, with notes of sweetness balancing its rich flavor. He inhaled the aroma and closed his eyes instinctively to better enjoy its unique taste and texture. It was superb, plucked from the ocean floor only a few hours ago, as fresh as could be. He opened his eyes, a slight smile on his face at the enjoyment of such a luxurious delicacy, to find Crowley’s golden gaze fixed on him as hungrily as it once had before, devouring him wholly in its intensity, the dark glasses tossed forgotten to one side.

His heart pounded in his chest, but he did not look away. For the span of a heartbeat, Aziraphale allowed himself for the first time in centuries to take in the delicately chiseled lines of Crowley’s face, his slightly parted lips, and the deep rise and fall of his chest, as though it was an effort to breathe. Crowley dropped his gaze after another second, fumbling as he put his glasses back on.

“Did the famous oysters live up to your expectations, then?” he asked, a slight smirk curving his lips as he drained his cup in one gulp, the sarcasm belying the tension of his hands. As he set the cup down, Aziraphale caught one last glimpse of his brilliant amber eyes, the whites consumed entirely by molten gold. For the first time, it dawned on the angel that perhaps it was not only demons who were capable of tempting, nor were they immune to temptation themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So excited for the next chapter, we're about to head someplace new! 
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


	5. Guiyang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His thoughts turned, unbidden, to the memory of the last time a flash of silver had caught his eye. A wreath of shining leaves set against auburn. Aziraphale was overwhelmed by a sudden wave of longing. Always he tried to keep his thoughts from straying in that direction. But tonight, just for tonight – he was so alone, and felt so far away. Just one moment of weakness.

_Guiyang  
105 A.D._

The curtains fluttered in the cool breeze as Aziraphale yawned, stretching his arms into the air. Was it so late already? His legs ached from sitting for so long at the table. He rose to his feet, smoothing his court robes as he walked to the window. His room faced the palace’s eastern gate, its watchtower prominent in the distance. The stars were already visible in the darkness of the sky.

He had been assigned as a eunuch in the Imperial Palace for some time now. While he had made an Effort most of the time he had been living among the humans, it was something of a relief not to have one now. It was strange at first, he supposed, that he lived in a human society where it was perfectly acceptable to live without one, but no matter. The Effort was simply part of what helped him blend in.

Most of his days were spent reading and sending messages for the various royal officials, unlike many of the other eunuchs who were assigned to protecting the Imperial concubines. For once, he was no longer a guard. Nevertheless, he quickly learned that he was perceived as occupying an influential position, despite not being in as close quarters with the royal family as the others were. Because of this, he did his best to keep to himself as much as possible. It wouldn’t do to have anyone becoming suspicious of him and reporting him to the Palace. He wondered what Gabriel would do if he was discorporated as punishment and shuddered at the thought.

His favorite part about this assignment was occasionally slipping out to visit the city. It was a wonderful time, to be able to walk around and sample so many kinds of food. The tastes he encountered were spectacular – the fatty crunch of roasted duck, steamed buns bursting into rich flavor in his mouth, sweetmeats of every variety imaginable. He particularly loved _mian pian_ , served in a bowl of steaming hot soup. And the tea! There were simply no words for it. It would have been worth coming all this way just to have one delicious cup. He always left a well-deserved blessing upon whoever had prepared something he had particularly enjoyed.

There were so many luxuries available that he had never encountered before. The feel of silk running through his hands like water. Sturdy dark leather cleverly shaped into slippers. Shimmering pearls inlaid in silver and gold. He loved the beauty of these opulent things, though he did not own any himself. It would not have done for him to appear wealthier than he was, after all. The writing materials he used for his court duties were precious things in themselves, hard as they were to come by at times.

A soft knock drew Aziraphale from his thoughts. He opened the door, quietly greeting the eunuch standing outside, clad in a set of robes that matched his own.

“Good evening, Cai Lun. What brings you here this late?”

“My apologies, I know it is late. But I thought you might be needing these in the morning,” Cai Lun replied, holding out a bundle of bamboo scrolls. Aziraphale accepted them gratefully.

“Thank you. I was not expecting them until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest,” he said, surprised.

“I’ve been experimenting a little on something new for writing, trying to get the formula right. But I haven’t been able to figure it out yet,” Cai Lun said, looking disappointed. “The bamboo scrolls are too difficult and costly. I can’t promise anything now, but it would certainly be an improvement on these.”

“I’m sure you’ll work something out soon,” Aziraphale said encouragingly.

“As do I,” Cai Lun sighed, nodding in farewell as he left.

Aziraphale smiled, looking down at the scrolls in his hands. He could feel how much care had gone into the effort of making them. Impulsively, he blessed Cai Lun, planting the beginning of an idea into his mind, one that he hoped would ease his daily labor.

In the months that passed, Aziraphale encountered Cai Lun only once or twice since that evening. He later learned that Cai Lun had been promoted. That same day, instead of his usual pile of bamboo scrolls, he received a bundle of thin sheets made of some sort of fiber. Puzzled, he looked up at the eunuch who had delivered them with an inquiring look.

“Cai Lun managed to come up with these for writing,” the eunuch told Aziraphale excitedly. “They’re called ‘paper’. He says they’re a lot easier to use than the bamboo scrolls.”

“Oh, how lovely! I must get started on my work, then. Please thank him for me and let him know I’m looking forward to using them,” Aziraphale replied, beaming happily.

Little did he know just how much of an impact his spontaneous blessing would make in a matter of years. Aziraphale now spent much of his free time reading the various works of literature that had become increasingly accessible, marveling at the ingenuity of humans. No wonder Cai Lun had gotten promoted, he thought, as he sat in his room in a rare moment of idleness, looking out the window at the full moon and its silver gleam shining on the palace grounds, the flowers on the tree outside his room cast in white and silver.

His thoughts turned, unbidden, to the memory of the last time a flash of silver had caught his eye. A wreath of shining leaves set against auburn. Aziraphale was overwhelmed by a sudden wave of longing. Always he tried to keep his thoughts from straying in that direction. But tonight, just for tonight – he was so alone, and felt so far away. Just one moment of weakness.

Closing his eyes, he sank into his memories – the fragrance of spiced wine and the sweet-saltiness of oysters, the scales on a snake-shaped brooch. The sharp outline of jaw and cheekbone, the aquiline nose, the glint of the compelling amber gaze fixed on his face. Just for a moment, allowing himself to feel, allowing himself to yearn, to wonder if the red hair would be as soft as silk in his hands.

The breeze ruffled through the stack of blank sheets on his desk, sending a few sheets fluttering to the floor. He picked them up, marveling anew at their ingenuity, when a wild idea occurred to him.

Setting the paper back down on the desk, he sat down, dipped a brush in ink, and stopped. This was insane. What would he even say? They had no relationship to speak of beyond the fact that they ran into each other every few centuries or so. But still, his hand hovered over the paper, the longing scraping against his throat.

> _My dear Crowley,_
> 
> _Have you heard of this wonderful thing the humans have come up with? They call it “paper” and already it’s been making quite an impact over here. I’m enclosing a few more sheets so you can try it for yourself._

There, that seemed innocuous enough, he thought. Was the salutation too much? Should he write it again? But paper was too precious even now to waste. It would have to do. He signed it with an _A_ , hoping Crowley would know well enough who it had come from. 

Taking a few more blank sheets, he placed his own note on top, waiting for the ink to dry. As he searched on his desk for a piece of twine to hold them together, it suddenly occurred to him that he hadn’t the least idea how to send it, not knowing where in the world Crowley could be – he could be back in Hell, for all Aziraphale knew. He sighed, contemplating his own handwriting. _It will have to do._

He rolled up the bundle and tied it securely shut with the twine. Closing his eyes once more, he reached out with his consciousness, imbuing his own angelic power into the effort. _Wherever you are,_ he thought, _I hope this arrives safely at your door._ He could not hope to locate Crowley, but it was the best he could do. He opened his eyes and the little scroll was gone.

In the first few days after sending the note, Aziraphale was on edge, anxiously awaiting any sign that it had been received. A response of some sort. Anything.

But the days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, the months into years. Nothing. He forced himself to stop dwelling on it somewhere after the third month had passed. Perhaps his message had gotten lost, had never been received at all. Perhaps he had not known how to reply, Aziraphale had left no address on the note. Perhaps he had just been sleeping the past few decades. _Perhaps –_

His chest constricted at the thought of something happening to Crowley. The thought that he might never see those golden eyes again. It had been a mistake to even allow himself that moment of weakness so long ago, he reproached himself, an ache at his heart, and pushed his thoughts away.

Day in, day out, he focused on his court duties, the miracles Gabriel bade him to perform, the more minor blessings he placed on the people around him, living quietly, enjoying his small pleasures of food, indulging his love of reading whenever he could. The routine soothed his soul, allowing him to settle into a modicum of tranquility once more. He had lived so long without Crowley. It was enough to have had a moment to acknowledge what he had felt. The tree outside his window flowered and bore fruit, withered and shed its leaves, before bursting into green again.

He stood once more by the window, inhaling deeply. The buds on the tree had finally unfurled themselves in the moonlight, and the breeze carried their delicate fragrance to his room. It was a beautiful night. The clear night sky was dotted with stars, and only the patrolling guards could be heard in the distance this late at night. He had already learned his lesson once before, and took care to turn his lamp off at a certain time in the night, restricting his reading to a tiny white light he cast directly above the pages to avoid it being seen from outside. The darkness shrouded him now, a lonely figure standing by the window, despite his light robes.

Turning away from the window, his gaze was caught by the beam of moonlight that fell across his desk. There was a strange round object there, one he was certain he had not placed there himself. He hurried to his desk, illuminating it with his tiny light.

A bright red fruit lay on top of a folded piece of paper. He picked it up, trembling slightly, and brought it to his nose. A pomegranate, he realized, inhaling its familiar scent. He had not eaten one in decades. He picked up the piece of paper slowly. A gleaming black feather slipped from its folds, coming to rest on the pomegranate. Aziraphale’s breath caught in his chest. He unfolded the paper slowly, almost reverently.

> _Angel,_
> 
> _Should’ve known this was your doing. Now, nothing will ever get in the way of your love of reading._
> 
> _Here’s something from my end. Figured you might not have had one in a while, they probably cost a fortune where you are._

The note was left unsigned. Aziraphale couldn’t stop himself from touching the words traced in spiky black letters, reading the short sentences again and again. He hadn’t known he was still waiting. Not until now. 

Hesitatingly he picked up the black feather, running the filaments gently between his thumb and finger. Whatever flippancy Crowley had tried for in his note was completely undone. He had wanted Aziraphale to have a feather from his own wing. He flushed at the thought of something that was so intimately _Crowley’s_ in his hand. It was beautiful, perfect and gleaming – doubtless Crowley kept his wings impeccably groomed. Aziraphale’s face grew even warmer, and he laid the feather gently on top of Crowley’s note.

As the red sheen of the pomegranate caught his eye, a jolt ran through him as he realized what it meant. The old story of Hades and Persephone, and the pomegranate that had kept her by his side. His heart thudded loudly in his chest and knew that Crowley thought of the last time they had seen each other, in Rome. This was no accident. This was an _invitation._

All of a sudden, he couldn’t bear it. He stood and paced about his room, the paper clutched to his chest, overcome, filled with a longing so intense it was near intolerable. He left his room, turning to the terrace which faced the west garden, his quiet footsteps the only sound in the silence.

Looking out over the garden, the darkness and the solitude calmed him somewhat, despite the chaos in his mind. The rippling of the small stream in the garden and the rustling of the wind flowed through his senses, leaving him filled with a happiness so intense it felt almost like pain. He allowed himself a few more minutes to linger in the tranquility of the garden before returning to his room.

He could hardly think clearly over the emotions that raged within him, but he forced himself toward practicalities. It was about time he moved on anyway, he had been in the Imperial Palace long enough that people would start getting suspicious that he wasn’t aging. Better to leave now, before the rest of the Palace stirred, then they would just take him for a eunuch who had escaped his service. He took a deep breath, and with a snap of his fingers, his belongings were neatly packed into two bags. In some distant part of his mind, he wondered if perhaps he might be going mad.

Opening a hidden pocket in one of the bags, he drew out the note Crowley had written, the feather safely tucked into it. He picked up his bags in one hand, the note pressed over his heart, and closed his eyes, willing himself to wherever Crowley was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this was a lot longer than I intended for it to be. This marks the spot where we begin deviating from canon, which I am weirdly excited about. 
> 
> A little bit about this chapter - Cai Lun is an actual historical figure who is credited for inventing the composition of paper! There are stories about how he was inspired one day by watching some wasps that were building their nest - they take bits of plant and wood fibers, smush them up with their saliva, and use that to make their nests. 
> 
> Let me know if there are any glaring historical errors I might have made! I've been writing unbeta-ed for a while now and I've been brushing up on my history as I go along. Enjoy! Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


	6. Mayab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I hardly ever see you now, and you leave so quickly… will you stay a while, angel? Stay a while just this one time,” Crowley continued, murmuring as his eyes fluttered shut.

_Mayab  
142 A.D._

Aziraphale found himself standing on soft grass, the sunlight streaming through the canopy of trees overhead. Already his court robes were stifling in the heat. _Where am I?_ he wondered, peering carefully at the unfamiliar foliage. He seemed to be in in the middle of a tropical forest, with no signs of human civilization anywhere. The sun was nearly at its peak in the sky.

_Where is he?_

Carefully, he tucked the note from Crowley back into his bag. He took one last look around himself to make sure there were no humans nearby, before vanishing his belongings into the ether. Inhaling deeply, he manifested his glorious wings into being, white feathers gleaming where the sunlight touched them. He stretched them out to their full length with some relief – his life at the palace had given him few chances to be alone for long enough to do so, and not a single opportunity to actually _use_ them.

The angel took flight, pushing past the crown of an ancient tree into the blue of the sky beyond. Higher and higher he soared, until he saw below him the makings of an enormous city buzzing with life. Magnificent structures of stone reached for the heavens, and the hillside was cut with such precision that it formed an immense staircase from high above where Aziraphale hovered.

This is where Crowley is.

A distant part of him was rather unsurprised. Crowley was always particular about keeping abreast of the times – it made sense that he would be here, in the midst of a flourishing civilization, despite it being far removed from the rest of the world. 

He flew closer, concealing himself in the trees. There seemed to be a large gathering of some sort going on, a celebration in the center of the city. It was all very colorful and lively, and some people were even wearing masks and feathers in their hair.

Landing softly in the grass, Aziraphale smoothed his court robes down wistfully one last time, as if to say farewell. In one fluid motion his hand swept up his body, his robes changing into a beautifully ornate cloth wrapped around his waist and held in place with a belt. His upper body was bare, but for the necklaces covering his chest, heavy with inlaid gems.

He shivered slightly despite the heat, unused to suddenly having so much of his body exposed after spending decades completely covered in several layers of clothing. Perhaps it would be best to attempt to conceal his identity somewhat, so as not to draw too much attention to himself. He willed into being a headband lined with white feathers and nacre, and a simple mask of clay covering his eyes and nose.

Surveying himself once more in his new garments, he realized with a start that he would have to make an Effort once more – where it would have been perfectly acceptable in Guiyang, it would be all too easy to arouse suspicion here without one, given the way the people of this city were dressed.

Finally, it was time to conceal his wings once more and step out of the foliage and into the crowd.

Perhaps it was his divine nature, but it rarely occurred to the humans around him to wonder who this stranger was, his presence was always quickly accepted. It seemed to take effect everywhere he went, despite how different Aziraphale’s human appearance was from that of the local people.

The people of this great city had straight black hair and copper-brown skin. Aziraphale could not have looked more different from them if he tried, but then again, he supposed, it had been much the same in the Middle Kingdom, and it hadn’t mattered there, either. Nevertheless, he tried to move through the throng of people leisurely, tried not to attract too much attention to himself, as he approached the large stone structure around which the people seemed to be congregating.

His eyes widened as he finally got close enough to see the finer details of the building. It was beautifully constructed, though he had no idea how they could have possibly done it. A single block of that stone must have weighed so much, he realized, perhaps even more than ten men could carry. What a magnificent feat of structural design. The blocks were carved with intricate designs along one side. Probably some homage to their local deity, he thought to himself. This building must be a temple of some sort.

He shuffled closer to peer at the figure etched deeply into the stone, a creature whose body curved and twined in coils like a –

Suddenly, a booming voice echoed from the temple, and the crowd immediately fell silent. A procession of men emerged from its depths, flanking a tall man with a black cloth wrapped around his waist, his face painted with black paint. The ornate jewelry he wore around his neck, upper arms and wrists flashed and glinted in the light, and his imperious posture was highlighted by the enormous crown of feathers he wore on his head, flaming red in the midday sun.

“Great people of Mayab! Today is the day we honor our god, the Great Serpent, Kulkulan!”

_Oh. Oh, dear._

Aziraphale fervently hoped he was wrong, but as the priest slowly ascended the giant stairs of the temple, he was torn between righteous fury at the unprecedented blasphemy, and a sheer desire to laugh. What in Heaven’s name was that wily serpent thinking, having an entire city _worshipping_ him like this?

“Kneel before the Great Serpent!” the priest thundered, and the people obediently bowed down. Aziraphale was incredulous, still frozen by his disbelief. Too late, as the priest caught sight of him still standing, a beacon of white plumes framing his head, the city on its knees.

“Who _dares_ to bring down the wrath of Kulkulan?” the priest bellowed indignantly. “Guards! Seize the infidel!”

Spears surrounded Aziraphale on all sides. His hands were pulled roughly behind him and bound tightly together, with more rope around his arms and torso, constricting his movement further. A sharp prod against his back pushed him in the direction of the temple. Now, from this close, he could see how dark it was inside, a great maw about to swallow him whole.

He considered his options. Without a doubt, he could break the ropes and disarm the guards if he tried. He was a principality, after all, his physical strength was greater than most angels, let alone humans. But clearly, he could not risk anything remotely miraculous in front of a crowd this enormous. Gabriel would –

Oh, for goodness’ sake. He had completely forgotten about _Gabriel._

Oh well, he thought, one problem at a time. He sighed internally at his rashness as the guards half-led, half-dragged him into the temple. The priest was yelling something about throwing him into the hall of sacrifice. How ridiculous these humans could be at times. Though he hoped they didn’t actually sacrifice other humans to this deity of theirs. He just needed to wait for them to leave him alone for a second so he could escape.

He shuddered internally as they entered into the darkness. It had a distinct aura of something malicious about it. What an utterly ludicrous situation he had gotten himself in. Farther in they went, the guards jabbing at him viciously and growling at him to move faster. The ropes burned against his bare skin.

At what seemed to be the dead end of an interminably long corridor lit only by the occasional torch, two guards paused before pushing one section of the stone wall aside, revealing a hidden room. Without further ceremony, the two guards shoved him inside, and he tumbled against the hard ground.

“We’ll be back by this evening. Unless the god decides he wants you first,” one guard said, smirking.

The wall slid shut behind them. The angel was in pitch-black darkness.

 _Let there be light,_ he thought, as a great white light illuminated the hall.

For a second, all he could make out before him were… plants? Verdant green foliage was flourishing everywhere in the great hall. He could see now that there was an opening in the ceiling that had been sealed shut – to keep the light out? But what about the plants?

Curiosity quickly overcame his desire to flee. With one strong tug, he pulled apart the ropes binding his hands together, and quickly made short work of the rest of the bonds around his torso. Wincing, he rubbed at the marks the ropes had left, angry red stripes already blooming around his wrists and arms. Bracing himself, he entered the thick greenery, pushing the undergrowth aside as he went, unsure of what he might encounter.

Suddenly, he tripped over an overbearing root, and fell face first into a small clearing. Disoriented, he pushed himself up on his knees, blinking, and froze in shock.

Just a few feet away from him, in a nest of lavish black cloth, an all too familiar figure lay curled up in its luxurious center.

 _Was he actually_ _asleep?_

The long red curls lay unmoving, in stark contrast with the black, the honey-yellow eyes closed. Aziraphale flushed as he realized Crowley was completely nude but for a bit of black cloth slung loosely about his hips, and a silver ornament in the shape of a snake that wound its way up his left upper arm.

He knew Crowley had become accustomed to indulging in sleep, over the years. But Aziraphale had never actually seen him sleeping before.

Aziraphale sat motionless for a few seconds, watching as Crowley’s pale chest rose and fell in time with soft rhythmic breaths, the past half-hour almost completely forgotten. Without thinking he had crept closer, close enough to see the lines of lean muscle running down his chest and arms, even relaxed in sleep. Close enough to touch the auburn hair.

He remembered suddenly why he was in this absurd situation to begin with. It was because he had been overcome with a desire to see Crowley again, to see his beautiful face, now utterly peaceful in slumber as he had never seen him awake.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered. _Open your eyes. Look at me._

He stirred at the sound of his name, his long delicate fingers twitching against the soft darkness of the nest as his eyelashes fluttered, trembling between awake and asleep.

“Crowley. I’m here.”

Finally, the large amber eyes opened, the black slits contracting against the brightness of the light Aziraphale had cast. Crowley lifted his hand to shield his eyes. His face turned towards Aziraphale’s, a sunflower turning toward the sun.

“Angel,” he murmured, voice heavy with sleep. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Quite. About a century or so.”

Aziraphale’s fingers edged towards the curls that lay inches from his reach. Longed to trace the mark of the serpent inscribed on his face.

“Huh. Feels so much longer than that,” Crowley sighed. “Come visit me more often.”

Aziraphale stilled, breath caught in his chest. He had never heard Crowley sound this vulnerable and open – Crowley, always so cool and collected. Aziraphale was unraveling so quickly he felt he might discorporate on the spot.

“I hardly ever see you now, and you leave so quickly… will you stay a while, angel? Stay a while just this one time,” Crowley continued, murmuring as his eyes fluttered shut.

_Oh._

_He thinks he’s only dreaming._

“Please, angel. A little while longer. It feels so real this time.”

Crowley was nearly asleep now, his breath settling back into a steady rhythm. Aziraphale felt as though his chest was about to burst, full to the brim with joy and pain in equal measure. He longed to rouse Crowley fully, shake him until those hypnotizing eyes were wide awake. _Look at me, Crowley._

“I’m right here, dearest.”

Aziraphale raised his hand, trembling, and at last touched the red hair that lay so strikingly against the black cloth. Just one caress, running his fingers through the curls that had so entranced him, for as long as he could remember, ever since he first beheld this terrible beauty in the Garden. This magnificent creature who called to Aziraphale in his dreams, who longed to see him, who begged him to please, _stay_.

Crowley’s face had settled into quiet lines as he slumbered on, unaware of the agony of the angel who knelt beside him. He knew already that he had risked too much coming all this way, and that any moment now Heaven might decide to suddenly look in on him. His heart constricted with terror at the thought of Gabriel finding him here with Crowley, the thought of what Gabriel would _do_ –

It was time to leave. He would not let any harm come to Crowley if he could help it.

But as he rose to his feet, he found that he was quite unable to move. How long before they saw each other again? Another century? Perhaps more? It was near intolerable.

Unfurling his wings once more, Aziraphale ran his hands over the right wing, looking for the best flight feather he could find, plucking it out quickly before his nerve failed him. He knelt down and placed the single feather next to Crowley’s hand, where he hoped he would find it when he awoke.

_I can’t stay, my dear. Not yet._

_Let it be enough for now that I was not just a dream._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mayab was the former name for Yucatán! This is loosely based on the ancient Mayan civilization in the pre-classic era. The god they are worshipping is inspired by the ancient god Kukulkan, "feathered serpent", closely related to Quetzalcoatl of the classic Mayan era. It is unclear if Kukulkan is an actual historical figure, as early texts contained artistic depictions of Kukulkan as the Vision Serpent, though some later ones referred to Kukulkan as a ruler or a priest.
> 
> I'm gonna be taking a break from fic writing a couple of weeks to study for exams, so I hope this chapter keeps you going for a while! Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


	7. Alexandria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Will you thwart me then, angel?” Crowley said lightly, leaning closer. “Protect the humans from my demonic wiles?”

_Alexandria  
244 A.D._

The city was quiet in the wee hours of the morning. A white-haired figure sat at a table outside a modest house, flicking through a series of papyrus scrolls. At some point, he sighed and stopped reading. He entered the house, and reemerged with a plate of bread drizzled with a generous dollop of honey, accompanied by a large bunch of grapes. He then proceeded to eat with the kind of enjoyment most people reserved for the finest of cuisines, savoring each bite of bread and each juicy grape with unabashed pleasure.

As the sun crept higher into the sky, the streets of the city came to life, buzzing with a frenetic energy. He took no notice, continuing to peruse the manuscripts in deep concentration, his nose mere inches away from the scroll.

“Have you heard?”

Aziraphale jerked back, startled, which had the effect of toppling half the scrolls on the table onto the floor.

“My apologies,” the man said, as Aziraphale, flustered, bent down to gather up the scrolls.

“I thought you had heard me earlier,” he continued, a hint of laughter in his voice, as he stooped to gather the remaining scrolls in his arms. Aziraphale, though slightly put out at being caught off-guard at first, now smiled warmly in recognition at the intruder.

“Forgive me, I was too absorbed in my reading. How lovely to have you back, Marcus. Are you staying long?”

“Only a few days, then we leave again. The army’s gathering supplies, so we’ve been allowed a break,” Marcus replied, grinning. He was clad as simply as Aziraphale, fine linen cloth around his waist, a golden necklace on his bare chest.

“Anyway, have you heard?” Marcus interrupted his musing once more.

“Heard what?”

“That the farming lands in the south have been purchased?”

Oh, Aziraphale had heard of the land in question. The previous owner of the estate, an old nobleman, had died with no living heirs. It had been the talk of the town for days.

“By whom?” he asked. Marcus looked around before lowering his voice conspiratorially.

“They say that it’s been bought by a foreign noblewoman, so beautiful it would make a man weep,” he said. “No one knows who she is. But I have heard she is unmarried.”

“Oh, goodness,” Aziraphale chuckled. “No wonder you are interested.”

“Can you blame me?” Marcus said with a laugh, though his face had flushed slightly. “It would be something just to see her before we leave.”

“Will you be married soon, then?”

“My parents haven’t said anything about it yet, but I only just got back last night,” Marcus said ruefully. “My brother tells me they’ve been busy with a recent business acquisition, and that it’s been doing well. What with that and with being a military officer now, I think I’d make a good match, don’t you agree?”

“Undoubtedly so,” Aziraphale said, smiling encouragingly.

“Well, I’d best be off then. I’m sure you are busy. But let me know if you hear any news, won’t you?”

“You’ll be the first to hear it,” Aziraphale replied, silently blessing the young man as he went on his way.

\---

Aziraphale was known and respected in that part of the city for being a scholar of Roman, Greek and Egyptian texts, and consequently ordinary folk were somewhat in awe of who they perceived to be a very learned man indeed. But they quickly found that he was as kind as he was intelligent, with the result that he had become quite well-known at the marketplace, and the vendors vied fiercely for his business.

“I thought I might see you today, sir,” a woman smiled at Aziraphale, her dark eyes lighting up as he patted her son’s head. “I’ve set aside the best dates and figs for you already.”

“Oh, how thoughtful. Thank you,” he said, having completed his blessing of the young boy, and overpaying her by at least double of what he actually owed. “And some of the grapes, if you please. They look especially sweet today.”

“By the way, have you heard?” she asked, as she deftly arranged the fruit in the basket he brought.

“About the estate being purchased?” Aziraphale was unsurprised. He idly wondered how long this would be a topic of gossip in the marketplace.

“Yes. Some of the sellers claim that they’ve seen its new owner,” she said.

“And is she as _beautiful_ as the rumors say?” he answered, chuckling.

“Even more so. She is tall and fair – as fair as yourself, sir. Long hair, perhaps after the fashion of her people. The others say they had not seen such hair before. It was a strange color,” she confided.

“Is that so?” Aziraphale replied, his mouth suddenly dry. “What did they mean?”

“Well, they say it was this color,” she answered. She held out her hand.

Aziraphale’s heart pounded loud in his chest. In her small palm she held a pomegranate, broken open, its dark red seeds glistening in the sun.

\---

The basket thudded heavily on the table as Aziraphale sat, and stood, and paced restlessly about the room.

Over a hundred years, he thought to himself feverishly, pulling out another stool to sit on. A hundred years since.

The memory came to him as quickly as though it had happened yesterday. The beautiful face soft and trusting in sleep, calling for him. The whisper of his hand over the silky red curls.

It was intolerable. He buried his face in his hands. What was he supposed to do now?

Over a hundred years he had waited for an answer, _any_ answer, and there was – absolutely nothing. Aziraphale was fuming. The audacity, after more than a century of silence, to disrupt the city where he lived, and in such a fashion –

A loud knock on his door broke through his train of thought. Briefly, he considered ignoring it, sighing as he got to his feet and opened the door.

A manservant stood outside, who made an obeisance to Aziraphale in an unfamiliar manner.

“Good afternoon, sir. My mistress requests a meeting with you tomorrow evening, if you would be so amenable. She sends you this,” he said, holding out a folded package of fine linen. Aziraphale murmured his thanks as he accepted it.

“What answer shall I give her, sir?” the servant prompted tentatively, after several seconds of Aziraphale staring down at the linen in his hands.

“Well, I really think – that is, I don’t –“

Aziraphale turned, attempting to conceal a century of confusion and sorrow, loneliness and anger, so intense it was nearly tangible, reverberating in waves around him. In so doing, he caught sight of the basket on the table that had fallen on its side. Among the spilled dates and figs, a pomegranate had rolled to the very edge of the table, just barely escaping what would have been a disastrous fall.

A wild longing filled him suddenly, overpowering the emotions raging inside him.

“Please let her know… I – I’ll be there.”

The manservant made the unfamiliar bow once more and departed, leaving Aziraphale in the doorway, still in shock, staring after him as he left.

After he had finally recollected himself enough to shut the door behind him, his eyes fell once more on the single pomegranate balanced on the edge. The vendor must have slipped it in for him, he realized, she had apologized numerous times after he had frozen at her words. She must have thought him offended. He sighed, setting the basket upright and moving the pomegranate nearer to the center of the table, where it would be in less danger.

His hands trembled as he laid the linen package on the table. It had weighed nearly nothing in his hands – the finest linen, painstakingly folded. Gently, he unwrapped the package, trying not to disturb what lay within.

As he lifted the last fold, the linen revealed at its heart a single glossy black feather. 

\---

“If you would wait a moment, my mistress shall be here shortly.”

Aziraphale nodded, not trusting his voice, as the manservant left the room, the door scraping shut behind him. The rays of the late afternoon sun shone through the window, and the fields were bathed in golden light. The room was bare, save for an elegant table with matching chairs. The servant had placed a bottle of wine and two cups on the table before departing.

This was a mistake, he thought wildly. He should never have agreed to this, he’d been made a fool for far too long, this was absolutely intolerable – and yet, here he was.

His heart was beating so hard he was certain other people could hear it.

In the hours since he had received the invitation he had barely eaten or drank. Though he didn’t need to, he felt lightheaded, nevertheless. The black feather he had received still lay in the folds of linen, untouched. He could not bear to touch it, overwhelmed as he was. Every minute before he had arrived here had felt like an eternity, but what were a few hours compared to a century? He had waited this long, he could wait a little more – it didn’t matter how long he waited, because how deeply he _longed_ –

“Aziraphale.”

He started, sure that the door had not opened behind him. His pulse raced at the sound of that voice – so familiar, yet its husky undertone was undeniably feminine. He rose to his feet but did not turn, as the footsteps drew closer, and finally paused directly beside him.

Aziraphale could hear the blood rushing in his ears, but he steeled himself and lifted his eyes to face her at last. A soft gasp escaped his lips as he beheld the woman who stood just a few inches away, radiant in the sun, clad in a sheath dress of the finest black linen. The auburn tresses, glowing golden in the light, were as long and luxurious as ever, but the curls had been tamed into soft waves, framing her angular face. Dark smoked glasses hid her eyes from sight.

“Crowley. It – it’s been a long time,” he said, thankful that his voice did not betray the depth of his emotion. His breath was caught in his chest, entranced as he was by her beauty.

“A hundred or so years since we _corresponded_ , yes,” Crowley answered, a corner of her mouth lifting wryly. Aziraphale blinked, the heat creeping into his cheeks, but she gave him no chance to react.

“Sit down, won’t you?”

Aziraphale sank into his seat cautiously, posture ramrod straight, as Crowley elegantly collapsed into the chair to his left. He was painfully aware of how close she was.

“How about a drink, hm? You’ve come all this way, after all,” she said, her head tilted to one side.

“Oh, yes. Thank you.” Aziraphale filled Crowley’s glass with wine before pouring some into his own.

“ _Salutaria_ ,” he said quietly, clinking his cup with hers, noticing for the first time that the surface of the silver necklace that lay on the slight swell of her chest was wrought with a texture reminiscent of glittering scales, inlaid with blood red jewels. She turned her face away slightly, the ghost of a smile on her lips, before taking a long drink from her cup.

“You’ll like that one. Picked it out myself,” she said, as Aziraphale inhaled the fragrance of the wine deeply before tasting it, closing his eyes as its fine notes unfolded on his tongue.

“This is a marvelous wine,” he agreed, surprised at its quality.

“Finest you’ll find, and from our very own winery,” Crowley answered. “Part of the reason I bought this place, of course.”

“So what brings you to Alexandria?” He was slightly dazed at how quickly they relaxed into easy conversation, as though it had not been a hundred and two years. _A hundred and two years. She knows as well as I do exactly how long it’s been._ He quickly banished the thought, unwilling to let her gain the upper hand this early, and took a rather large sip of wine instead.

“I’m on a bit of a long-term project this time. Figured I may as well make myself comfortable.” 

“’Comfortable’ is an understatement, don’t you think? This is the most sought-after property in this part of the city,” Aziraphale said, slightly puzzled. “You must have gone to quite a bit of trouble to purchase it.”

“Well, what can I say? Beauty can only take a woman so far,” Crowley said, her chin propped up on her hand, gazing directly at Aziraphale. “Nothing like wealth to get a man’s attention.”

He snorted, but a spike of resentment had flared up unbidden at her words, disarmed as he was by her sudden gaze.

“I see. Might this be the long-term project you were referring to?”

“Now, now, I didn’t invite you over to talk about work. This is purely social,” Crowley declared, refilling their cups. Right on cue, the door scraped open as servants entered, bearing tray after tray of food. The table was soon laden with freshly baked bread, an assortment of fruit, steaming dishes of spiced meat and vegetables. Aziraphale’s mouth watered as he breathed in the delicious aroma of the veritable feast laid before them.

“Goodness, this could feed an army. You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”

“Thought you’d be pleased, angel,” Crowley drawled, smirking as Aziraphale blushed.

“Yes, well, I only meant – this is all very –”

“Oh, just shut up and eat,” she interrupted, a smile playing on her lips.

Aziraphale complied, not unwillingly, sampling each dish with growing delight. He was unsurprised, though somewhat disappointed, that Crowley ate nothing. She only watched as Aziraphale enjoyed every mouthful, and sipped her wine, and refilled their cups when they ran low. Aziraphale glanced at Crowley surreptitiously as he ate, but her expression was inscrutable behind the dark glasses. She lounged with a posture that might have suggested that she was utterly bored, yet somehow their light banter never seemed to run out.

Before Aziraphale knew it, the sun was setting, and darkness fast approached. The combination of wine, food, and Crowley’s proximity made a heady combination. The surreality of having Crowley beside him, so close he could have reached out and touched her with only the slightest effort – the awareness of it threatened to overwhelm him.

The servants entered once more and lit the oil lamps as the last of the sun’s reddened glow slipped over the horizon, and cleared the table, leaving only the fruit and the wine. Crowley reached for the bottle once more, but Aziraphale leaned over to take it. The brush of his arm against hers was like an electric shock, so conscious was he of the short distance that separated them from each other.

“Here, allow me,” he said, pouring more wine into their cups before setting the bottle down on the table.

Crowley was slouched low in her chair, yet somehow the languorous posture only served to accentuate her elegance. Her long fingers played with the silver necklace, and she seemed lost in thought. Even after all these years, her beauty still held Aziraphale spellbound.

 _Now or never,_ he thought, emboldened by wine and emotion.

“Crowley, you’ve caused quite a stir moving here,” Aziraphale chided her, keeping his voice light.

“Do tell,” Crowley said, eyebrows raised. “Have they been talking about me?”

“They’ve spoken of nothing else for days. The beauty from a foreign land.” Aziraphale, realizing belatedly what he had just said, clamped his mouth shut, his face burning as he quickly glanced at her. Crowley laughed, though there was no mirth in it.

“Good. That should make my job easier,” she said.

“How so?”

Crowley sighed and leaned deliberately in Aziraphale’s direction, her arms glowing like alabaster in the soft light, her hand cupped under her chin.

“I’ve been assigned to conduct a few seductions,” she said, her face unreadable. “Much easier to do in this form, you see. I heard the army is stopping by for the next few days… I’m sure I could persuade them to stay longer, don’t you think?”

“I see,” was all Aziraphale could trust himself to say. He could feel an unexplainable fury building, fanned by his confusion and despair, stoked by a century’s worth of waiting in vain. The nerve of this creature to be telling him this, all while watching him so openly for his reaction. He sensed that she was trying to get a rise out of him, to provoke him into who knows what. He would not give her the pleasure.

“Amazing, these humans. They think of things all by themselves, I barely have to make any effort,” she mused, as casually as though she were talking of the weather. “The rumors alone will make me the most desirable woman in their eyes.”

“You won’t find it that easy. I’ll make sure of that,” Aziraphale found himself saying, distracted as he was – she was mere inches away from him, close enough that he could reach out and touch the soft red hair gleaming in the flickering light. Close enough that he realized under the fragrance of lilies that she wore lay notes of smoke, cinnamon, wood. The blend was intoxicating, and it was wreaking havoc on his corporation. _Not close enough._

“Will you thwart me then, angel?” Crowley said lightly, leaning closer. “Protect the humans from my demonic wiles?”

Her lips curved into her wry smile. Without waiting for an answer, she reached out her hand suddenly and touched Aziraphale’s gold necklace, wrought in the shape of wings.

“That is some lovely craftsmanship,” Crowley murmured, her fingers tracing over the fine details, very carefully not making contact with Aziraphale’s skin. In some faraway part of his mind, he wondered if she could hear how his heart was racing. His throat was dry as he became conscious of how her smoked glasses had slipped down – he could see her eyes now, outlined sharply in kohl. The amber gaze hungrily tracing down his bare chest and torso.

In that moment, Aziraphale felt his self-control finally snap.

Crowley made to pull away, but Aziraphale caught her hand and held it fast against the gold necklace, directly above his pounding heart. She stiffened for a second, and her eyes, laid bare, at last met his own. Even in the dim light Aziraphale could see that the white had receded in her eyes, they were now completely amber, the black slits blown wide. He could feel her pulse racing in the delicate wrist against his skin.

“Yes. I will thwart you at every possible turn, _demon,”_ Aziraphale said quietly, but forcefully. He felt Crowley shiver, as though it were a caress, rather than a curse. “I will _personally_ see to it that no seductions are conducted. Not if I can help it.”

Aziraphale’s hand instinctively squeezed hers tightly, his gaze intent. Crowley, for once, seemed to be at a loss, and dropped her eyes. Her lips moved as though she were about to speak, but no words came. 

“Look at me, Crowley.”

He could barely breathe. Her hand burned hot as fire in his own. She lifted her eyes to his with some effort, and looked away once more, unable to hold his gaze.

“You – you said that to me, once. In a dream,” she said, the words halting, her eyes now fixed on the flame of the nearest oil lamp. The silver necklace glinted as her chest rose and fell with her measured breaths. Aziraphale watched her steadily, as she struggled to compose herself, and let go of her trembling hand.

“Was it? Was it only a dream?” Crowley murmured, the tremor in her hand now more pronounced as she reached up to her face and flung her dark glasses on the table. “Answer me.”

Her golden eyes, filled with wild longing, cast themselves up to his own. Aziraphale was thoroughly arrested by her gaze, it burned through him, set him ablaze. He realized suddenly that perhaps, he was not the only one who had been waiting for an answer all these years.

“Aziraphale.”

“No,” he said at last. _I was there, dearest. You asked for me, and so I came to you._ The words Aziraphale longed to say refused to pass through his lips. The agony in her gaze pained him so. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to pull her close and hold her in his arms for the rest of eternity, if that was what it took to ease her pain. What a terrible misunderstanding this was. He could hardly bear it – her casual façade had been ripped to shreds the moment he took her hand, and now her every emotion was on display for him to see.

All his anger had left him, leaving only an aching desire to comfort Crowley, to soothe her. He lifted his hand, hesitating, and stroked her hair softly, his fingers lingering in the thick waves. She closed her eyes as he did, leaning ever so slightly into his touch. A small smile rose unbidden to his lips at the uncharacteristically gentle expression on her face. Crowley would never forgive him if he ever spoke of her being _gentle._

“The humans got one thing right, you know,” he said.

“What’s that?” Crowley asked, glancing at him suspiciously.

“You are even more beautiful than the rumors say.”

Crowley rolled her eyes and scoffed, but even in the flickering light Aziraphale could see the deep flush that lingered on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday today, so as a gift to myself I wrote this chapter. We're on the slow burn train, so hang in there! Stay indoors and wash your hands! 
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


	8. West Essex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t look at me like that. You know what will happen if you disobey.” Crowley had leaned forward, and his hand was on Aziraphale’s forearm, gripping tightly, its warmth searing through the wool. He was so close that Aziraphale caught the glint of a thin silver chain around Crowley’s neck. His amber eyes were just visible over the rim of his spectacles. “Don’t be fucking stupid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter where I update my tags and rating. It contains violence, death, an instance of profanity. Be gentle with yourself if you are feeling vulnerable today.

_West Essex  
537 A.D._

As Aziraphale entered the stables, his squire William jumped to his feet, his face anxious.

“Is everything alright, Sir?”

“Yes. Quite alright.”

William’s shoulders relaxed visibly as he took the reins, leading the horse into its stall. Aziraphale felt a swell of affection for his young charge, who had come from a family of decent tradesmen into this apprenticeship that was normally reserved for the sons of noblemen. His strong character and skill at the blade had carried him thus far, and others had already begun to speak of him approvingly as a squire of much promise.

Aziraphale slowly removed his helmet and chain mail coif, exhaling in relief at the sudden lightness, and laid them down carefully as William dashed out of the stall and began putting away the horse’s saddle, reins, and armor. Aziraphale, preoccupied with his thoughts, lingered.

“They say you spoke to the Black Knight, Sir Aziraphale.”

“I did.” Aziraphale sighed, thinking of his disastrous encounter with the man who was the terror of the entire kingdom, only to discover that it was in fact Crowley under the imposing black helmet.

William’s eyes were as large as dinner plates. “Was he truly fearsome, Sir? What did you speak of?”

“He offered me some sort of agreement,” Aziraphale said slowly, choosing his words with care. “That if I would stand down, he would cease his wickedness as well. Naturally, I refused.”

William nodded in solemn wonderment and picked up Aziraphale’s helmet and coif to clean them. “But what was he _like?_ ”

“Well, it was not our first encounter. I found him much unchanged.” Aziraphale’s annoyance was building now, at the thought of _Crowley_ inspiring such fear and awe, but he smiled at his young squire, and blessed him silently. He was growing to be a fine young man. “Thank you, William. I must speak to King Arthur and the Knights straightaway.”

\---

The banquet was as magnificent as always, and the royal hall crowded with guests. Golden platters of every kind of meat imaginable, great joints of carved lamb and beef set between baked pheasants and spiced peacocks, entire suckling pigs slowly turned over the fire. A variety of stews and jellies abounded at every table, and every cup overflowed with the finest of wines. Knights, royalty and nobility alike feasted, in celebration of the King’s latest victory against yet another invasion.

Yet in the midst of the festivities, one knight sat picking at his meal, his appetite nearly gone. Gabriel had come upon Aziraphale suddenly that afternoon, shortly after he had met with the Table Round. The archangel had clapped a hand firmly on his shoulder, and congratulated him on his good work, and told him that the next battle would bring a terrible blow to the King’s army – and he was to do absolutely nothing about it. Rather unfortunate, but all part of the Great Plan, as Gabriel had told him with an enormous smile.

Aziraphale was no stranger to violence. He was a principality, after all, it was how he had ended up as a Guardian in the first place. But the thought of the coming loss distressed him so deeply, even now, that it had nearly driven out all his thoughts of the Black Knight. The King’s feasts were always a thing of splendor, of extravagance, but tonight the food turned to dust in his mouth. He reached instead for his goblet, standing nearly full, and gulped down every drop. He set it back down on the table and a nearby serving girl immediately approached him to refill it. As he thanked her, the empty seat beside him was filled by another knight, who motioned for wine. The girl turned to fill his cup as well.

“You’re looking gloomy. Aren’t we supposed to be having fun?”

Aziraphale froze at the familiar drawl.

“Crowley. How did you get in here?” A rhetorical question Crowley did not even deign to dignify with a response other than to raise his eyebrows, the dark half-moon spectacles on his face hiding his eyes. His long curls were tied neatly away from his face, and his black clothes and cloak left his identity indistinguishable from the next knight. 

“Feasts like this are always the best time to have a private conversation, you know. Everyone busy with whatever they’re plotting… or distracted by whoever they’re trying to get into bed,” Crowley mused, watching a knight at the table across them whispering into a lady’s ear. He raised his cup and clinked it against Aziraphale’s. “Drink up, you’ll feel better.”

Aziraphale raised his goblet to his lips, emptying it a second time, as Crowley watched him intently.

“Hm. Must be bad.”

“Where have you _been?”_ Aziraphale finally asked, turning to meet Crowley’s gaze squarely. “It’s been –“

“I know,” Crowley interrupted him. “Believe me. I know _exactly_ how long it’s been. I’ve been Downstairs.”

“For nearly two and a half _centuries?_ What happened?” The alarm Aziraphale had been suppressing for centuries rose to the surface. “Is everything alright?”

Crowley’s face had closed off the moment Aziraphale had allowed his worry to color his voice.

“S’nothing. Don’t worry about it,” he mumbled, taking a long drink from his goblet before motioning for more wine.

“But –“

“I said, it’s _nothing.”_ Crowley said harshly, a scowl creasing his forehead for a moment as he stared sullenly into the depths of his cup. “Now, what’s gotten you all worked up?” He had put his inscrutable expression back on like a mask as he stared at Aziraphale, who sighed. _Stubborn demon_.

“I just received an… update from Gabriel, earlier today.” He fidgeted with the goblet before taking a long sip. “About how the next battle would go.”

“Not well, I take it?”

Aziraphale hesitated. Regardless of his confused emotions where Crowley was concerned, nothing could alter the fact that they were still hereditary enemies. Just yesterday, he had refused on principle to give in to Crowley’s idea of deceiving Heaven and Hell by simply allowing the humans to do as they pleased with no interference. Shouldn’t he be withholding this information from Crowley? Nevertheless, he had never been good at hiding his emotions, least of all from Crowley, with whom he had always felt an inexplicable frankness. A desire to be open.

Aziraphale’s face was a clear tell. Crowley nodded in dawning comprehension.

“Whatever it is, you’ve got to do it,” Crowley said, his manner suddenly stern. “Don’t interfere with whatever is supposed to happen.”

“How could you say that?” Aziraphale threw all caution to the wind in the face of his anxiety. “When so many of these lives are about to end, and they don’t even know it? Look at them! Feasting as though –”

“As though there’s no tomorrow?” Crowley finished dryly, though his face was hard now, his hand clenched around the stem of his goblet. “There’s nothing you can do. You know this. Shall I remind you of Golgotha? Mesopotamia? The _Garden?_ ”

Aziraphale flinched, though Crowley had not raised his voice once.

“Hell. I can’t believe I’m saying this, let alone to an angel. Don’t meddle with Her Plan.”

He pulled his spectacles lower slightly, just enough so that Aziraphale could see his golden eyes. Aziraphale felt the burning gaze like a flash of heat through his corporation.

He looked away, dread coursing through his veins. Everything felt so wrong. This time, Gabriel hadn’t even tried to give him a reason for why it was going to happen, only that it would, because God had decreed it would be so. No word of comfort that it wouldn’t happen again, the way it had been with the Flood. How could She allow this? And why was Crowley telling him these things? He took another long swallow from his goblet, trying to make sense of his thoughts.

“Are you even listening?”

Aziraphale nodded minutely, before looking up at Crowley, his agony sculpted clear on his face.

“Don’t look at me like that. You know. You _know_ what will happen if you disobey.” Crowley had leaned forward, and his hand was on Aziraphale’s forearm, gripping tightly, its warmth searing through the wool. He was so close that Aziraphale caught the glint of a thin silver chain around Crowley’s neck. His amber eyes were just visible over the rim of his spectacles. “Don’t be _fucking stupid.”_

\---

Aziraphale knelt on the battlefield, exhausted beyond belief, as he struggled to heal a fellow knight who had taken a barbed spear in the stomach. He could not heal him without drawing out the spear, and he could not risk drawing out the spear for fear that he would not be able to survive it. The knight seized his hand with a surprising strength, his last whispered words carried away by a gust of wind. Aziraphale knelt beside him, head bowed in grief, as the fierce grip slackened gradually around his hand. Aziraphale reached out a trembling hand and gently drew the man’s eyelids down over the unseeing gaze, as the knight lay pale in the arms of death.

All around him were the groans of dying men, filling his ears until he longed to scream, to rage against Heaven for allowing this to happen. But he could barely move. His mind was numb from the fatigue of performing so many miracles, one after another, only to see each man he had healed be struck down not ten minutes later by a fresh volley of arrows, a blow to the head, a blade from behind. He tried to get up, but his legs would not move, and was left with no choice but to crawl through the men lying on the field – whether dead or alive, he no longer knew. He could not have performed a miracle even to avoid being discorporated.

“Sir,” a voice called faintly.

Aziraphale felt a rush of energy enter his body at the sound of that familiar voice, as he dragged himself to find William with a gash on his forehead, and his side rent open by a gaping wound.

_Oh, God. Please, no._

“I told you not to come,” Aziraphale said weakly, cupping his young squire’s cheek in one hand – he would have been knighted in a few years, Aziraphale was sure, but he had not quite lost the baby fat of childhood. And here he was. Mortally wounded in battle. “I ordered you to stay behind.”

“I’m sorry,” William whispered. “Sir, I – I’m so afraid. Don’t leave me. Please.”

“Fear not, child.” Aziraphale smoothed his hand over William’s hair, matted with blood and filth. Already, his labored breathing had begun to ease.

 _Lord, please, give me the strength,_ he prayed, and placed his right hand over the deep wound, steeling himself. But he could not heal him. His divine power was exhausted well past its limit, not a single miracle left, not even to spare William of this final agony. Aziraphale could only gather him up in his arms, cradling him gently. Aziraphale watched the thin chest rise and fall with William's agonized breaths, until at last, he moved no more.

Aziraphale did not know how long he sat there, clutching his body tightly, the horrible stink of death surrounding him. He did not know how much time passed until strong hands, blazing with heat, tugged at his arms softly. But he would not let go. Only God Herself could pry him away now.

“There’s nothing you can do now. Let him go, angel.”

At last, he loosened his iron grip, and allowed Crowley to lay William’s body carefully on the ground. He looked even younger, in death. Aziraphale took one last look at the pale face before Crowley pulled Aziraphale’s left arm around his thin shoulders, pulling him to his feet.

Aziraphale’s legs gave out beneath him, but Crowley caught him just in time, a strong arm holding Aziraphale around the waist to support his weight. Together, they stumbled away from the slaughter.

When they came upon a small stream, Crowley laid him down gently, leaning against a boulder. Aziraphale stared blankly into the distance as the sun began to set, his mind numb with grief and fury. When Crowley appeared again, he was holding a cup in his hand filled with water, cool and sweet. He knelt and held the cup to Aziraphale’s lips, urging him to drink until the cup was empty.

They sat together in silence for a few minutes, the sun casting its golden glow over them. Aziraphale wondered uncomprehendingly how such a thing could still be so beautiful after all the horrors he had just witnessed, the carnage and gore of the battle.

“I warned you. Why didn’t you listen to me?”

Aziraphale could not answer. He could not even look at Crowley. He could only sit there staring into the distance, his face curiously wet, the roaring in his chest becoming louder and more intense with every second, until he could no longer bear it. He curled in tightly on himself, a strange keening sound was issuing from his mouth, and he couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs.

All of a sudden, he was enveloped in heat, his face pressed snugly against Crowley’s shoulder, and for a minute Aziraphale felt as though Crowley’s arms were the only thing still holding the pieces of him together. If Crowley let go, he would fall apart. His breath came in gasps as he tried to regain his composure, tried to subdue the agony and despair that permeated every inch of his being.

“Hush, angel. Listen to me,” Crowley said urgently. Aziraphale, who was trembling violently now, felt Crowley’s arms tighten around his shoulders. “Whatever it is you’re thinking right now, don’t say it.”

The image of William, lying still in death, suddenly came to his mind, and Aziraphale shut his eyes tightly as a fresh wave of anguish overcame him.

“Breathe. Just breathe. Everything’s going to be alright now.”

Aziraphale sat shivering against the warmth of Crowley’s body for what felt like an eternity, until his trembling abated, and his breathing slowed. He felt utterly worn out and defeated. The sun had set, and already it was growing dark. With the new moon rising, there was only the light from the stars to see by. He kept his face hidden, breathing in that scent reminiscent of wood, cinnamon, something indefinably Crowley.

“That’s it. Come on. You need good food and rest. Possibly a drink.”

\---

With a snap of Crowley’s fingers, they were back in the village. Crowley led him silently in the dark to a small house near the edge of the village. The fireplace came alive with another snap, burning bright and hot, illuminating and warming the room.

“Wait here.”

As the door shut with a click, Aziraphale sank down into a chair in exhaustion. The room was nearly bare, only a table and two chairs, a surprisingly large bed in one corner, a rumpled black quilt on top of it. He sat and gazed into the fire, mesmerized by the crackling flames, until Crowley returned at last and began piling food onto the table – a small loaf of bread, freshly baked. Soft goats' cheese and some fresh fruit. A bottle of wine emerged from a dark corner of the room.

“I thought you might like it better if it were real.” 

Aziraphale could only gaze at Crowley. His heart felt as heavy as a stone in his chest, and he could not speak.

“Eat. I promise you’ll feel better. Or have a drink, at least.” Crowley pulled two cups from out of nowhere, and filled them with wine, setting one down in front of him. “It’s good stuff.”

Aziraphale’s hand moved woodenly to grasp the cup, raised it to his lips and drained it. Crowley was right – it was an exquisite wine, and he felt it warming him from inside out. Slowly, at Crowley’s cajoling, he managed to finish half the loaf and some cheese.

“Would you like to sleep? You’re – you’re welcome to use my bed. If you want.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, puzzled.

“I don’t need to sleep.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You don’t need to eat, or drink, or _breathe,_ for that matter. Have you never slept before?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Never.”

“Might do you some good.” Crowley hesitated. “Only if you want.”

Aziraphale sighed and relented. In some faraway part of his mind, he considered how odd it was for Crowley to be fussing.

“You should make yourself comfortable.”

“I’m too tired.”

“Let me.” Crowley cleared his throat, looked away, worry betraying itself in the tightness around his mouth. “So you can get some proper rest.” 

After a split second, Aziraphale nodded minutely. Crowley kept his face turned away as he snapped his fingers, leaving Aziraphale as fresh and clean as though he had just stepped out of a bath, and dressed in a spotless cream-colored linen shirt and pants. He felt lighter, suddenly.

“This is more comfortable.”

Crowley grunted, and still without looking at him, got up and approached the bed, snapped his fingers once more. The bed immediately made itself, the quilt neatly tucking itself into the mattress, the down pillows fluffing themselves up.

“Get in, angel.”

Aziraphale got up and walked towards Crowley, his bare feet padding softly on the floor. Crowley pulled a corner of the quilt off the bed and motioned for Aziraphale to sit. The pillows were invitingly soft. He was so exhausted. But suddenly it occurred to him that he was sitting on _Crowley’s bed._ He blushed to the roots of his hair.

“W-where will you sleep?” He stammered slightly.

“Don’t need to.” Crowley remained standing, staring at the fire, until its blazing died down to softly burning flames.

“You need to rest, too,” Aziraphale said suddenly, shocked at his own words. His face was so hot, he was grateful that it was now dark enough to hide it. Crowley only looked down at him inquiringly, his eyebrows raised.

“I – I only meant –”

“Go to sleep.”

Somewhat discomfited, Aziraphale lay down, tucked the black quilt around himself and was, without warning, immediately and completely enveloped in that scent that was so distinctively _Crowley_. He was overwhelmed for a moment, his senses unraveling in sudden agony, his corporation reacting to the illusion of proximity. He felt the heat rising to his cheeks again, and inhaled and exhaled determinedly, thoroughly embarrassed at having such a visceral reaction. After a few more seconds, during which he had held himself stiff as a board, afraid to betray himself, he surreptitiously peeked at Crowley from under the quilt.

He was relieved to see Crowley was not even looking at him. He was gazing out the window.

“What do I do now?”

“Close your eyes. You’ll get there.”

Aziraphale’s gaze lingered for a few moments on Crowley, his face in profile, bathed in starlight as he gazed at the sky above, until at last Aziraphale’s eyelids drooped shut of their own accord, heavy with exhaustion.

\---

He found himself walking in a field, barefoot, the night sky above studded with stars. All was utterly still.

He walked on and found himself at a shallow river. He forded it and found himself in another field, sweltering in the heat of the noontime sun. The sun had dried the dampness from crossing the river, but now he found that the ground was wet. He looked down, and found his feet covered in blood.

He tried to scream, but no sound left his mouth. He tried to run, but his legs refused to obey, moving at the speed of honey dripping from the comb. He looked up and saw William holding his helmet and coif, the smile on his face marred by the ugly gash on his forehead.

“I told you.”

Aziraphale trembled at the sound of Gabriel’s voice. He turned around, but there was nobody there. William collapsed to the ground, white as death. He rushed to him, but as he bent down, William’s face turned into Crowley’s, his beautiful, proud face now pale and streaked with gore, the golden eyes unseeing. Aziraphale reached out in anguish towards him but froze at the sight of his own two hands, dripping with blood.

“You should not have interfered.”

Aziraphale, numb with dread, looked up and was blinded by the blazing white light that struck him hard in the chest, and he fell, down, down into the yawning abyss –

\---

He jolted awake covered in a cold sweat, his heart beating hard against his ribs. For a moment, he was thoroughly disoriented.

_Where am I?_

“Angel?”

He turned sharply to find Crowley kneeling on the floor beside the bed, his forehead creased in alarm. Without thinking, Aziraphale reached out, blindly groping, and Crowley caught his hand, held it tight in both of his own. The soothing heat of his skin grounded Aziraphale. He remembered where he was – in Crowley’s room, in Crowley’s bed.

“If that was sleep,” he said shakily, “I never want to sleep again.”

“Just a dream, that’s all.” Crowley ran his thumb softly in a rhythmic circular motion against the back of Aziraphale’s hand.

“But it felt so real,” Aziraphale murmured.

“I promise you it wasn’t.”

Aziraphale tugged his hand gently out of the warm grasp, and reached toward Crowley’s face, his fingers hesitating. For a moment he saw his hand, covered in blood, as he had dreamed. He shuddered.

“Won’t you… won’t you take these off?”

He saw Crowley stiffen for a moment before nodding once, almost imperceptibly. Gently, Aziraphale drew the dark glasses away from Crowley’s face. His fingers brushed against Crowley’s cheek, his skin searing with heat. He laid the glasses carefully on the bed, but Crowley was now staring resolutely into the flames, and not at Aziraphale.

“What’s this about?”

Aziraphale could not speak. For a moment, he could only gaze at Crowley in sheer relief, his golden eyes burning in the firelight, glowing like coals. Aziraphale’s heart constricted painfully in his chest.

“I saw… such terrible things,” he finally whispered, sick with fear and grief as the memory of Crowley’s injured face entered his mind, the light in those splendid eyes extinguished for all eternity at his own two hands.

“Do you want to talk about – no, alright.” Crowley cut himself off after one look at Aziraphale’s face.

Crowley settled back down onto the floor, in a position that did not look at all comfortable to Aziraphale, with his legs folded under him at odd angles. He watched as Crowley leaned his head on the edge of the bed, his red curls coming loose from the neat hairdo. Crowley stared into the fire for a few seconds longer before stealing a look at Aziraphale.

“Don’t be scared. It wasn’t real.”

From where he lay, Aziraphale could only see Crowley’s eyes gleaming even in the darkness, peeking at him almost shyly out of the corner of his eye.

“I’ll be right here, angel,” he said softly. “You can go back to sleep.”

For a long time, nothing more was said. There was no sound in the room but the crackling of the fire. Aziraphale tried to shut his eyes, but how could he sleep now after what he had seen?

He gazed at Crowley; whose face was turned away now; he could just barely catch Crowley’s face in profile. So intent was he, and so distracted by his own thoughts, that it took a few seconds before he realized that he could hear Crowley’s voice, singing in a low melody, so soft he could only just grasp the words. Hot tears pricked Aziraphale’s eyes as he recognized its tune from so many centuries ago, he was surprised either of them still remembered it.

_Thou hast been in Eden the garden;  
every precious stone was thy covering,  
the beryl, topaz, and the diamond,  
the sapphire, the emerald, and the onyx,  
and gold –_

Crowley’s voice trailed off suddenly, but the words of the lament echoed in Aziraphale’s mind.

_Therefore I will cast thee as profane out of the mountain of God:  
and I will destroy thee, O covering cherub, from the midst of the stones of fire. _

For Crowley to remember this particular song, after how many centuries – it must have struck him to the core. Aziraphale ached at the thought of Crowley, still suffering from the Fall even after all these years. The one thing they had never spoken of. He wondered now if Crowley ever would.

_Thine heart was lifted up because of thy beauty,  
thou hast corrupted thy wisdom by reason of thy brightness._

A few moments passed in silence, before Crowley resumed singing, his voice a low hum, the tune that of a popular song composed by the king’s bard, who had sung it the night before the battle. But Aziraphale’s thoughts dwelled still on the words of the long-forgotten lament.

_I will cast thee to the ground,  
I will lay thee before kings._

There would come a War someday, and he would be on one side, Crowley on the other. The image in his dream had firmly imprinted itself into his memory – Crowley, pale and still at his feet. Was this to be their fate? If they met on the battlefield, would he raise his hand, call upon his holy power to smite Crowley to the ground?

He shut his eyes tightly. He had always known at the end of days, he would be called to rejoin the angelic host, to fight as a soldier once more and win the glorious eternal victory for Heaven. He trembled at the thought. How could he even begin to explain to Crowley that it was not for himself that he feared? In that moment Aziraphale beheld Crowley’s lifeless face, he could have torn the world asunder in his wrath, in his pain. If anything ever happened to Crowley – Aziraphale’s heart clenched, stunned by the intensity of his own emotion.

The bed creaked as he shifted nearer to the edge of the bed. The low voice ceased suddenly.

“Crowley,” he murmured, and his voice broke.

The golden eyes were upon him at once, attentive. But Aziraphale’s heart was too full, and he could not find the words for what he wished to say. He shook his head instead.

Crowley sighed and resettled himself to face the bed, resting his arms on the mattress. He laid his chin on top of his hands, his uncharacteristically solemn face inches away from Aziraphale’s.

“What do you want, angel?”

Aziraphale could only gaze at Crowley’s face, half illuminated by firelight, half shrouded in darkness. He watched as Crowley’s lips parted slightly, as though on the verge of speech. Desire and anguish coursed through Aziraphale in equal measure, but his fear for Crowley weighed heavily on his heart. As much as he longed to map out the planes of that lovely face with his fingers, to pull Crowley up by his arms into the bed, to bury his nose in the soft red hair that entranced him so – it would only put Crowley in the path of divine retribution once more. Aziraphale gathered up the frayed edges of his self-control, at last breaking the silence.

“Would you sing again?”

Crowley’s eyes widened before darting away, a small huff escaping his lips.

“Didn’t realize you were awake,” he said quietly, as though in apology, voice rasping. His shoulders were stiff with mortification. The ghost of a smile rose to Aziraphale’s lips despite himself.

“You have a lovely voice.”

“ _Don’t_ say that,” Crowley snarled under his breath.

“Alright. I won’t.”

Crowley scowled for a moment before abruptly flopping back down onto the floor, his face turned away. Silence reigned once more. Aziraphale feared he had genuinely offended him, but just as he opened his mouth, Crowley spoke.

“Just – just this one time.”

Aziraphale stiffened in surprise before a real smile dawned on his lips, his face warm with unexpected delight. He pulled the quilt tightly around himself and buried his nose in its soft folds, inhaling deeply, as the clear notes of an aching wordless melody at last lulled him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words of the lamentation are taken from Ezekiel 28:12–19 KJV. 
> 
> Apparently David Tennant's birthday is on April 18, so I suppose this is an unintentional birthday gift. 
> 
> I wanted to challenge myself a bit with this chapter. Writing this was exhausting, and so was my final read-through before posting. Whew. Care for yourself, dear reader! Hang in there for the next one! 
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


	9. Mecca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you remember what I said before, about us cancelling each other out?”
> 
> That snapped Aziraphale brusquely back into reality.
> 
> “I told you, we’re not having this conversation.”

_Mecca  
614 A.D._

A man stood delivering what was clearly a powerful speech before a small group of people, gesturing with the intensity of his passion. Aziraphale watched them from a distance with some interest. It had been a very long time since Gabriel had last made a personal appearance before a human. After that particular encounter, Gabriel had turned up suddenly, right next to Aziraphale’s table, clapping him soundly on the shoulder with a cheery smile as he bid Aziraphale to keep an eye on the human. Aziraphale had smiled weakly and agreed, of course he would, and felt the ghost of Gabriel’s iron grip on his shoulder for a long while after he had departed.

“Quite the crowd, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale froze for a moment, caught off-guard.

“I remember the days when you actually used to greet me properly.” He sighed and looked over his shoulder and was surprised to see Crowley completely shrouded in black from head to foot, her hair and face obscured by a black scarf and veil. A silver chain draped in the folds of the scarf around her neck caught the flash of the sun. Her eyes, for once, were the only part of her that remained visible. They were even more mesmerizing now that they were all Aziraphale could see of Crowley’s face. He flushed slightly as her unblinking gaze fastened on his face.

“Mm,” Crowley agreed. “Long time ago.”

“What brings you here?” Aziraphale asked, scoffing at himself internally. Their usual pretense at civilities, by now a routine so well-rehearsed they knew every step by heart. Just two immortal beings that ran into each other every century or so, nothing more.

“Just curious. Heard someone was claiming to have met an angel.” Crowley raised his eyebrows, watching Aziraphale intently. “And I’m only acquainted with one angel.”

 _Acquainted._ Aziraphale, at times, speculated if Crowley knew how well she could infuriate him. Then again, he supposed, that is all they should be, after all. Acquaintances, at best. He forced a polite smile instead.

“Well, it wasn’t me this time. It was Gabriel who appeared to him.”

“He _what_?” Crowley’s eyes widened. Aziraphale had always surmised that she hid her eyes to shield the humans from her serpent’s gaze, but it occurred to him for the first time that perhaps that wasn’t the only reason why. Her eyes were so terribly expressive, laid bare like this. The distinct shade of amber was particularly striking, set against the black veil and scarf swathed around her face and head. Aziraphale could barely form a coherent thought. He turned his attention back to the man, who had continued speaking to his rapt audience, though Aziraphale barely heard a word.

“More than once, too.”

“Well. Must have been important, then.”

Aziraphale could hear Crowley pacing behind him, her clothes rustling with her movements.

“Is everything alright, Crowley?”

“Nothing. Everything is fine. Just fine.” Crowley reappeared beside him suddenly, her head cocked to one side as she gazed at him intently.

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale said, frowning now. There was something strange about the way Crowley was behaving. Her gaze was fixed at some point in the distance now, just a little to the left of his face for a few seconds, before her eyes darted away to look over her shoulder. “It doesn’t seem like it.”

“No,” Crowley said, a little too quickly. “S’nothing. Really.”

Crowley looked over her other shoulder, her fierce gaze sweeping the area warily. Aziraphale, by now, was thoroughly puzzled, and not a little alarmed.

“Crowley!”

Crowley’s head whipped around, the veil around her face coming slightly loose.

“What?”

“Something’s wrong. Tell me.” Aziraphale’s pulse had increased, his mind jumping to the worst conclusions possible. Was Crowley in danger? Were they being watched? He couldn’t help taking a surreptitious look around, his awareness on high alert for any demonic or angelic presence nearby.

“Just having a look around, is all.”

“But –“

“I told you. Everything is fine. Would I lie to you?” Crowley glared at Aziraphale, but he wasn’t going to let her get away with it so easily this time.

“There’s something on your mind, and it’s bothering you.”

Crowley grumbled, her fingers worrying at the silver chain around her neck. Aziraphale watched her steadily, waiting. At last, she rolled her eyes.

“Fine. Have it your way. Remember the last time I was Downstairs?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said shortly. He wasn’t likely to forget Crowley’s absence of nearly two and a half centuries. “What about it?”

“They’ve gotten it into their heads that I’ve been slacking off. That’s all.” Crowley shrugged, but Aziraphale could see the tightness around her eyes.

“Are you going to tell me about it, or am I going to have to guess?”

“Look, angel. It was mostly paperwork. Took me forever.” Crowley reached up and pulled the veil more tightly around her face. “Nothing to worry about.”

“I thought you wouldn’t lie to me, Crowley?”

Aziraphale meant for it to be a bluff, but his heart sank when Crowley flinched almost imperceptibly, nothing giving her away but the tiniest movement around her eyes.

“What makes you think I’m lying? Everything I’ve said is true.” She spoke with her usual bravado, but to no avail – she had already betrayed herself.

“I know you.” The words surprised even Aziraphale. Crowley’s eyes were wide, and she was holding herself rigid. Aziraphale relented somewhat, despite himself.

“Alright. Maybe you aren’t lying. But there is something you aren’t telling me.”

“Look, it wasn’t much. Like I said, I had to get through a mountain of paperwork, and got… a disciplinary sanction. For slacking off. That’s all.”

“If that was all, then why couldn’t you just tell me that?” Aziraphale’s frustration was rising, and so was his worry. Why was Crowley going through so much trouble to keep this from him?

“Why can’t you just leave it alone?” Crowley sighed. “It won’t do you any good.”

“Keeping it to yourself doesn’t seem to be doing you much good, either.”

Crowley gazed at Aziraphale for a long moment, an enigmatic look in her golden eyes.

“Aziraphale,” she said at last. “You must have some idea of what goes on in Hell, don’t you? Are you going to make me say it?”

And there it was. Until Crowley had said it, Aziraphale hadn’t known that he needed it to be spelled out for him. Fury filled him suddenly, and he felt as though something was clawing its way out of his throat. He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, willing himself under control before he spoke again.

“I won’t force you, not if you don’t want to say it. But I… I think I would rather hear it for myself.”

Crowley lifted her eyes to the heavens for a second, as if in supplication.

“Not here.”

Aziraphale hesitated, then nodded. His heart beating fast with trepidation, he snapped his fingers.

\---

“Any chance of a drink?”

Crowley had draped herself artistically over a thick rug which had obligingly stretched itself out to accommodate her comfortably. Seeing her there made Aziraphale somewhat lightheaded. Crowley had never been to any of his living spaces before, not in all the years they had known each other.

He wasn’t sure, at first, if he had made the right decision to come here. He considered his living space his own personal sanctuary. In fact, now that he thought about it, apart from Gabriel’s exceedingly unwelcome visits, no one had ever entered his home before. Not until now. Yet somehow, Crowley’s presence felt almost as though it fit right in, as though there was an empty space he hadn’t known was there until he saw her lounging on the cream-colored rug among the plump cushions.

Aziraphale pulled out from his stores a small wooden barrel of a fine distilled wine, made of sugarcane and grapes. He had found it so pleasant that the merchant from Baghdad whom Aziraphale had first purchased it from began stocking it regularly whenever he visited the marketplace. He briefly considered asking Crowley if she perhaps wanted something to eat as well – he had a basket of fruit fresh from the market that morning – but decided against it. She would most likely refuse, in any case, he supposed.

He returned to the sitting room with a jar of wine and a cup, placing them before Crowley, who raised her eyebrows at him. She had most considerately rearranged herself so that Aziraphale could sit next to her on the rug.

“Just one cup?”

“I’m not in a drinking mood.”

Crowley shrugged.

“Suit yourself.”

She poured the wine into her cup almost carelessly, lifting it to her lips under the veil with practiced ease and taking a long drink. When she lowered the cup, Aziraphale saw that it was empty, and frowned.

“What? It’s good stuff.” Crowley protested, as she refilled her cup.

“I do have taste, you know. That wine should be savored, not gulped down.”

Crowley’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners.

“There’s more than one way to enjoy a good drink, angel.”

She held her veil carefully away from her lips as she took another long draft from her cup, draining it a second time.

“This place is pretty heavily warded,” she remarked nonchalantly, glancing at Aziraphale as she helped herself to more wine. “Worried about someone breaking and entering?”

The realization hit Aziraphale suddenly as Crowley’s golden eyes lingered for a moment on the partition behind him that led to his tiny kitchen, the way her gaze swept across the room before settling on his face once more. Was she – could she be _afraid_ of something? He noticed now that there was a certain rigidity about her posture, despite how comfortable she appeared. She had chosen to sit facing the curtain concealing the door through which they had entered, with the two windows in the room within her line of sight.

“It’s just a precaution. I’ve done it for all the places I’ve lived in. No one can enter without my express consent. It’s been quite effective, I believe. Except for the archangels, of course, since their power is greater than mine. They’re the only ones that come to see me, anyway.” Aziraphale winced slightly at the memory of the last time Gabriel had appeared suddenly, in this very room.

“That bastard Gabriel can just come and go as he pleases?” Crowley’s eyes flashed with resentment, and creases appeared between her eyebrows. “I never liked that one. Not even before.”

Aziraphale was astonished at this pronouncement. It was the first time he ever heard Crowley refer to anything even remotely related to the time before the Fall. Unsure how to mention it, he decided it was probably best to save the discussion for another time.

“There’s not much I can do about it, I’m afraid. In any case, it’s only usually to deliver instructions.” He didn’t want to elaborate any further on Gabriel’s affected cheerfulness, his sparkling smile, hard as a diamond, his manner of delivering backhanded compliments and speaking to Aziraphale as though it was the most tiresome task on his infinitely long to-do list.

“Hmm. And I suppose it’s specifically warded against demons, then?” Crowley’s glare turned into a more thoughtful gaze, and she deliberately blinked at Aziraphale once. “Surprised I didn’t go up in flames when we got here.”

“No!” Aziraphale exclaimed, perhaps too quickly – Crowley had shifted away slightly in her surprise. But he couldn’t bear the thought. Even now, he dwelled often on the images his dreams had shown him whenever he fell into worrying about Crowley. Blood dripping from his hands. Crowley’s pale face. He shook his head to clear it, forcing himself back to the topic at hand.

“I mean, yes, it is warded against the forces of Hell. Of course it is.” He looked up to see Crowley’s eyes fixed upon him, her expression unreadable. “But I brought you here, didn’t I? No reason for the wards to activate.”

Crowley said nothing for a long moment, long enough for Aziraphale to grow anxious. Perhaps he had said too much? She was still a demon after all. What if she revealed it to her superiors Downstairs? It wouldn’t do for them to find out about his security measures, what if they attempted to deactivate or circumvent the wards –

“You’re telling me no one can come in here without you letting them.”

“Except for the archangels, yes.”

“Huh.”

Aziraphale noticed her veil flutter slightly, as though Crowley had let out a long breath. She had relaxed an infinitesimal amount, the lines of her lithe body falling against the cushions more naturally.

“Nice trick. You should teach me how to do that.” Crowley’s eyes were crinkled around the corners again, and she spoke lightly, but she very nearly spilled a drop of wine over the rim of the cup as she poured.

Crowley _is_ afraid, Aziraphale thought suddenly. But of what?

“What would you ever need something like that for?”

“Dunno. Like you said, just a precaution, right?” Crowley picked up the jar, examining its contents. It was very nearly drained. “Any more where this came from?”

“You are incorrigible,” Aziraphale sighed as he rose from the rug.

He went behind the partition once more and knelt to refill the jar from the barrel from where it was stored in a corner, away from the window. A movement of shadow caught his eye suddenly. When he looked up, he was startled to see Crowley standing just past the partition, her hand pushing the curtain open to peer into the kitchen.

“Did you want something, Crowley?”

Aziraphale faltered as Crowley walked into the kitchen area slowly, her eyes scanning every inch of its small space. For a moment, she knelt to examine the basket of fruit, less than an arm’s length away from Aziraphale, so close that he caught a whiff of her familiar, indefinable scent, and his breath caught sharply in his chest.

“Nice place you’ve got here, angel,” she commented as she rose to her feet, her eyes lingering for a moment on the small window that was the kitchen’s source of light. She was only a little taller than he was, but in this house with its low roof, she could have reached up and touched the ceiling with her fingers without any effort.

“Well, I do live here, you know.”

Crowley made a noncommittal noise, before turning around with a flourish, lifting the curtain delicately as she went. He took a moment to compose himself – even after all these years of inhabiting this corporation, of taking in the world through its indulgences, it still overwhelmed him how visceral its reactions could be. How instinctively it reacted to _Crowley._ He shook the thought off quickly, knowing it would do him no good to dwell on it now, and returned to find Crowley standing by a window, a column of black against the brightness of the afternoon sun.

“Mind if I shut this?” Crowley asked abruptly, without turning.

“Oh. Yes, if you like.” Aziraphale watched Crowley uncertainly as she snapped her fingers. Curtains unfurled themselves over the windows of the house, and the curtains concealing the door and the entrance to the area past the partition pulled themselves up. He stood frozen for a moment in the sudden darkness, before a small flame manifested itself on the tip of Crowley’s finger as she knelt to light a lamp next to the rug, her golden serpent’s eyes glowing in the dark. The room slowly brightened with its warm light.

“Much better,” Crowley sighed as she settled back down comfortably on the rug. Aziraphale watched, stunned, as she unwound the veil from her face, uncovering her aquiline nose, the high cheekbones sharp in the lamplight. Slowly, she undid the scarf around her head, revealing the masses of auburn curls beneath. She ran her hands through her hair in a vain attempt to restore some semblance of order. Crowley looked at Aziraphale, her eyes bright with liquor, the faintest trace of a smile on her lips, and reached her hand out wordlessly towards him.

Aziraphale found that his mouth had dropped open slightly, and he quickly cleared his throat, flustered. Years of being assigned in this city had taught him how the humans valued modesty here, and he hadn’t realized until now that he had, at some point, accepted this as an everyday fact. The rules of human society didn’t apply to them, of course, he knew this objectively, and yet he felt as though he had just witnessed something so incredibly… there was no other word for it but _intimate_. He blushed to the roots of his hair at the thought and quickly held out the jar of wine. Crowley’s fingertips brushed his own lightly as she took the jar from him.

He sat down on the rug, fussing with a cushion to hide his confusion, and looked up to see Crowley watching him, her unblinking eyes barely concealing her amusement. She pulled out another cup out of nowhere and set to filling it with a generous measure of wine.

“No fun drinking alone. You should catch up.” Crowley pushed the cup into Aziraphale’s hands, the deliberate touch of her skin burning, setting something in his core alight. He stared at her in wonder for a moment, feeling as though he had never fully appreciated how beautiful she was, before raising the cup to his lips carefully, inhaling deeply and taking a sip. The mellow, earthy notes of the wine unfolded in surprising depth on his tongue, its sweet overtones belying its strength.

“Exquisite,” he breathed softly as he shut his eyes for a moment, enjoying the delicious flavor. As he raised his cup to his lips to take another sip, he was momentarily caught off-guard by the avid expression in Crowley’s wide eyes. She dropped her gaze immediately, reaching once more for the jar to refill her cup. She picked up her cup and held it out to him wordlessly as he gently clinked his own cup against hers. How quickly they could fall back into this, Aziraphale thought, old habits, well-worn and familiar.

Crowley seemed an entirely different person now, as though a curtain that had been between them had dropped suddenly. There was no stiffness in her body now. She lounged against a cushion with unstudied elegance despite her limbs being at all sorts of odd angles. Her hand held the cup tilted at a dangerous angle, yet not a drop spilled from its rim. Aziraphale’s hand brushed against the black veil that lay on the rug between him and Crowley, and the heat suffused his cheeks at the thought of how it had been wrapped tightly around the beautiful face just moments ago, resting against her nose, perhaps just barely brushing her lips. Concealing her from view almost entirely, he realized suddenly.

“What are you hiding from, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked softly. His body tensed as he waited, hardly daring to take a breath as she remained silent for a long moment, seemingly lost in thought. Finally, Crowley exhaled loudly, and downed the rest of her wine in one swallow.

“I wasn’t Downstairs for a century. It was just about fifty years or so. Head office kept me on a tighter leash for a while, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“Dunno. One of my lot decided to pin something on me. Probably one of the Dukes.” Crowley shrugged, her hands idly toying with her cup, but her jaw was clenched. “Happens sometimes. Can’t do anything about it.”

“What happened then?” Aziraphale asked, though he dreaded hearing the answer.

“Got punished, then I had to get through decades’ worth of paperwork. If you ask me, the paperwork was much worse.” Crowley began pouring more wine into her cup. “You aren’t drinking.”

“This wine is stronger than it tastes, you know.”

“Could’ve warned me earlier.” A grin quirked at the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “I didn’t feel it until after I’d finished the entire thing.”

Aziraphale sighed internally, taking another sip absently from his cup.

“Now you’re just changing the subject.”

“No, I’m not!”

“Well, explain to me then why you’ve been acting so strangely. I still don’t understand.”

Crowley fell silent for a moment, her thumb tracing over a tiny rough patch on the cup’s surface.

“Every now and then, I get spot checked. Never used to happen before. One moment, I’m tempting a human, business as usual. The next, they’ve been possessed by some bloody demon come to audit me or something, checking if I’m doing my job properly. It’s…” Crowley’s voice trailed off, and Aziraphale saw a shudder go through her, an involuntary movement rippling through the black silhouette. “Anyway, my point is that I never know when they’re going to turn up.”

Aziraphale watched Crowley raise the cup to her lips, her face set in a frown but her eyes vacant, her long fingers tugging vaguely at the silver chain around her neck. What must they have subjected her to, for her to be this way now? Heaven left him well enough alone while he was on Earth – except for Gabriel’s unpleasant visits, which were few and far between, in any case. But for Hell to be keeping a watchful eye on Crowley… A swell of horror and revulsion twisted his stomach at what Crowley must have had to endure. He could only imagine what she was leaving out of her story, for her to give him such a bland version of events – her strange behavior that afternoon spoke volumes where her words did not.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Crowley said, her fierce glare sharpened by the shadows. Aziraphale wondered what his face was showing Crowley, and hastily tried to rearrange it into a more neutral expression for fear of offending her. “What does it matter anyway? You’ve gone a thousand years without seeing me before.”

Aziraphale recoiled at the sudden edge in her voice. Indeed, what was a century in the life of an immortal being but the blink of an eye? He did not know what to say, for he could not even make sense of it himself. Somewhere along the way he had become more and more aware of an inexplicable ache in him that refused to be soothed no matter how much he delighted in the pleasures of this world, a strange emptiness he only acknowledged in the briefest of moments.

But even as Aziraphale tried to find the words to somehow explain to Crowley what he himself could not understand, the image of Crowley lying dead on a battlefield flashed into his mind once more, and he winced involuntarily, as though in pain. Another reminder that whatever horrors Hell might hold, Heaven’s retribution was the greater danger, by far. He could not, perhaps, shield Crowley entirely from Hell, but if he could spare her from the wrath of Heaven, he would do so, and gladly.

“That is true, I suppose. Rather silly of me.” Aziraphale forced himself to speak lightly, to smile ruefully at Crowley, who was now gazing at him with narrowed eyes. He took a rather large swallow from his cup, disconcerted by his own poor attempt at levity.

“Am I at least right to presume that things have improved since then?”

“Yep. They finally started letting up on me after I took credit for the humans rioting in Constantinople, just a few years before I last saw you.”

“Crowley!”

“I said, I took credit! Barely even lifted a finger while I was there,” Crowley said, her voice scornful. “I’ve got an imagination, but I don’t think I could come up with half the things those humans think of on their own.”

 _A few years before I last saw you._ Another realization slotted into place at the memory of Crowley’s watchful gaze in the darkness of his room, refusing to sleep even as Aziraphale slept in Crowley’s own bed. Aziraphale had been too exhausted to think much of it at the time; but knowing what he did now – he felt a powerful rush of something he could not name, like heat searing through his corporation, as Crowley leaned over to fill his cup, her curls falling over one side of her face.

“Drink up, then, go on. I’m an entire jar ahead of you.” Crowley pushed her hair away from her face and smiled suddenly, her eyes fever-bright. Aziraphale, caught off-guard, found himself raising the cup to his lips and drinking half its contents, distracted by her beauty.

“Much better.” She leaned towards him confidentially. “Now, I was wondering.”

“Wondering about what?” Aziraphale found himself fixating on the way the flickering light brought out hints of gold in her hair. If he just reached out his hand…

“Do you remember what I said before, about us cancelling each other out?”

That snapped Aziraphale brusquely back into reality.

“I told you, we’re not having this conversation.”

“Just hear me out.” Crowley’s voice turned low and soothing. “Those humans are smart, you know that. They’re creative. They can take care of things pretty well on their own. You don’t have to do anything. You can just stay home, read as many scrolls as you want. _Savor_ every drop of wine, every bite of fruit, right here in the comfort of this room.”

Aziraphale considered this. It did sound quite nice.

“But what if something happens to the humans?”

“Then just blame it on my lot.” Crowley’s unblinking gaze was focused so intently on Aziraphale, it was becoming difficult for him to think clearly. “Or, you know, just remind them that Her plan is ineffable or something. They can’t possibly say anything about that.”

“What if someone comes to check?” Aziraphale was grasping at straws in the face of Crowley’s logic, which, as he regretfully admitted to himself, had made sense even when Crowley had first brought this up decades ago.

“When was the last time someone asked you about something you wrote in a compliance report?” Crowley demanded, her eyebrows raised. “Presumption of regularity applies to angels, right? Everyone’s presumed to be doing their jobs properly unless proven otherwise?”

“Well… What about you, Crowley?”

“I’ll think of something. I always do.” Crowley smirked at Aziraphale with her usual audacity, but he had not missed the way her body had stiffened just for a split second before she spoke. His chest tightened with sudden fear.

“But what if–”

“I’ll take care of it. I promise,” Crowley interrupted, leaning closer, over the space where the veil lay between them, the movement wafting the intoxicating scent that was uniquely hers in his direction, her tone coaxing. He thought suddenly of the way she had taken off her veil earlier, revealing the finely sculpted face beneath. A snake shedding its old skin, leaving itself momentarily exposed. The look of relief on her face as she had dropped the veil on the rug. How could he agree to this, vulnerable as she was?

“It’s too much to risk,” Aziraphale murmured, not knowing how to explain himself.

“It’s foolproof. There won’t be anything to worry about. Let’s just give it a go for the next few decades. You can stop anytime if you want to.”

“What exactly are you proposing?”

“That you do absolutely nothing for a few years, except the things you actually want to do. Think of it as going on leave. You’re just taking a break, that’s all.”

Goodness, Crowley could be alarmingly persuasive when she wanted to be, especially when she was gazing at him like that with those eyes of hers. Aziraphale could no longer find a reason not to agree. In any case, he thought, it wasn’t as though Crowley was asking him to sign a binding contract. He could end it at any time. Nothing but a temporary arrangement.

“Oh, very well. I suppose we could give it a try.”

Crowley grinned, thoroughly pleased with her success, but Aziraphale still worried. He knew it would irritate her if he tried to show any sign of concern, but he couldn’t help himself. 

“But you must be careful, Crowley. If anyone found out about this–”

“Nobody’s going to find out. This is just between you and me, angel.”

Aziraphale’s breath caught. _Between you and me._ Why did he feel a thrill run through him at Crowley’s words, when he knew they were skirting dangerously close to something like mortal peril?

“Frankly, the humans have got everything covered already,” Crowley continued, as though not noticing Aziraphale’s distress. “You do whatever you like for a few decades, I’ll stay out of your way, nobody will suspect a thing.”

Aziraphale looked up so sharply that Crowley’s casual tone faltered.

“What do you mean by that?”

“By what?” Crowley looked genuinely puzzled.

“If you _stay out of my way_ …” Aziraphale paused and steeled himself, took a deep breath. If he was not careful, one step more, and he would cross the invisible line they tacitly held. “How will I know you’re keeping your end of the bargain?”

Crowley’s face closed off suddenly, and Aziraphale's heart sank. He had made a terrible misstep somewhere, disrupted the rhythm without knowing. 

“Well, I suppose an angel like you can’t find it in yourself to trust a demon.” Her smile was edged with something that Aziraphale might have described as hurt, had it not been for the way she hissed the words at him. “Good to know you have some sense of self-preservation after all, at least.”

She rose to her feet fluidly, and there was a whisper of cloth as the veil and scarf wrapped themselves securely around her face and head.

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale said, startled. As he made to get up, Crowley turned suddenly, a dark figure towering over him. Aziraphale felt a prickle at the back of his neck as the air around her shimmered with demonic power.

“You won’t ever know for sure, _angel_ ,” Crowley said quietly, the strange hiss still in her voice. Her eyes glinted coldly in the darkness, golden to the edges. “You’ll have to take it or leave it.”

By the time Aziraphale had gotten to his feet, she had already crossed the room, her hand resting on the bolt on the door.

“Crowley, wait –”

She paused and glanced over her shoulder at Aziraphale but said nothing. His words died in his throat at the contemptuous look in her eyes.

“You can tell me yourself in a few years if I held up my end of the bargain or not.”

Aziraphale flinched and lifted his hand against the blinding glare of the sun the moment Crowley pushed the door open. As the door slammed shut behind her, the windows of the house uncovered themselves, allowing the late afternoon sun to stream into the room. He hesitated for a moment, blinking in the sudden brightness, his heart pounding wildly in his chest, before rushing to the door.

He flung the door open wide, her name a whispered prayer on his lips. But she had already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few historical notes: the prophet Muhammad, the founder of Islam, was said to have been visited by the angel Gabriel in a cave while he was praying, which is when he received his first revelation from God. I also came across this amazing reference for what [his house looked like](https://thethinkingmuslim.com/2015/06/28/inside-of-the-prophet-muhammads-pbuh-house-and-his-belongings-3d-replica/). The interior of Aziraphale's house in this chapter is inspired by this!
> 
> The end of the chapter may have been somewhat inspired by the amazing film Portrait of a Lady on Fire. This is how I pictured [Crowley](https://lwlies.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/01/portrait-of-a-lady-on-fire-adele-haenel-1108x0-c-default.jpg) at the end, looking over her shoulder at Aziraphale. (This was an absolutely spectacular movie, I highly recommend you don't go another day without watching it!) 
> 
> I'm going to try and update this a bit more often now that I'm home, in the pockets of time between working and studying for classes and staring at the ceiling wracked in existential anxiety. 
> 
> Hope you're all keeping safe and staying home! Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) or [Tumblr](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)!


	10. Moira | Rendlesham | Dumfriesshire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearly forty years now. Aziraphale had waited this long, and even longer before. A few more decades would not make much difference.

_Moira, Ireland  
652 A.D._

“Anatolius.”

The scribe looked up with a start, his hand sending a wide-sprawling blot across the page.

“Donatus! I didn’t know you were still here.”

“I was just about to leave. My apologies for startling you.” The grey-haired grammarian gestured ruefully to the paper on the desk. The beautifully formed lettering that had already nearly filled the page was ruined by the large black stain.

“Oh, dear,” the scribe breathed, his forehead knitting together with distress for a moment before he sighed and looked up with a small smile. “Never mind. Please think nothing of it.”

Donatus hesitated for a moment before stepping closer to the writing desk.

“You are working too hard. I have been speaking to Cenn Faelad and the others. They have told me about how you are always the first to arrive and the last to leave.” Donatus held his gaze, speaking firmly. “The work is important, but you must not limit your life to this alone. Go home and be with your family.”

“I appreciate your concern, but… I have no family here. I live alone.”

“Regardless, you will ruin your health. Finish up on what you’re working on for tonight. The rest can wait until tomorrow.”

“Alright. I’ll do that. Thank you.”

“Good night.” Donatus inclined his head in farewell and departed.

Aziraphale buried his face in his hands as the door shut behind him. He knew he had been pushing the boundaries too far. The grammarians were starting to take notice, if only to see a scribe with a work ethic that would have driven a normal human to madness. He had no need for food, or sleep. He had little desire for the former, absolutely none for the latter. Consequently, he spent nearly all of his time sitting at his writing desk, working feverishly.

Already, their work was nearly complete. In Aziraphale’s defence, it was a superb project, one that kept him absorbed in its fine details. Gaelic was a language that genuinely fascinated him – for one thing, it was a language particularly exacting with its pronunciation and grammar, one that recognised three genders in substantives and pronouns. But there was a more important consideration at hand.

 _Uair is e cetna bescno rugad on tur, ba mede co mbad leithiu quam gach mbescna, conid æn dia taisealbad o tossach_. _“The first Speech that was brought from the Tower. Its time the time of building the Tower by Adam's children.”_

This was why he had chosen to come here. Gaelic was the first language created after the fall of the Tower, overcoming the confusion of tongues. To capture the rules of an ancient language several centuries old – truly, the work delighted him beyond measure. It was in these moments that he fully appreciated the gift of creation that had been bestowed upon humans when they themselves had been Created.

He had just enough reason to be here that he would be able to evade any inquiries from Gabriel, in case he suddenly decided to take it upon himself to visit Aziraphale – he loved making abrupt unannounced appearances, much to Aziraphale’s chagrin. Surely it must only be good to preserve a language as old as Babel – it certainly wasn’t doing any harm, he thought, despite the fact that he had no one to make justifications to but himself.

It was much easier to bury himself in his work, as he had done for the past few decades. The more he was preoccupied, the less time he had to dwell on his thoughts, which invariably strayed in a single direction if his hands remained idle for too long. There was merely a near-constant ache in his chest, one that he refused to acknowledge for longer than a breath. But it was enough for him to realize that he had always felt it, this strange nameless longing – ever since he had left the Garden.

Nearly forty years now. He had waited this long, and even longer before. A few more decades would not make much difference.

* * *

_Rendlesham, England  
717 A.D._

Aziraphale stood from his desk and walked to the window, lost in thought, gazing out at nothing. His fingertips were stained black with ink. He had been transcribing a poem from memory for the several days. It was a marvellous work of art, a truly enthralling masterpiece of a series of heroic deeds, yet it weighed heavily on his heart.

The past few days he had been writing, he had begun to feel as though he were part of the epic itself as the words passed through his hand, though he was but a conduit for the words narrated by the bards. Words that he had heard recited in court so many times that they had etched themselves deeply into his memory.

His ears rang with the clashing of swords and the scent of blood filled his nostrils. His eyes stung with the blistering smoke of an enormous fire. As he looked out the window, in his mind’s eye he beheld a battlefield, the groans of dying men overwhelming him as a soldier gripped his hand, mouthing his last words soundlessly into the void. He shut his eyes tightly, gripping the windowsill, suddenly feeling as though he were about to retch.

 _Forþan hie mægenes cræft minne cuþon, selfe ofersawon, ða ic of searwum cwom._ _“For my nerve and my might they knew full well. Themselves had seen me from slaughter come blood-flecked from foes.”_

Always, he would remember the nightmares that a few hours of sleep had brought him. The image of an all-too-familiar figure lying unmoving at his feet, golden eyes staring sightlessly in death. His own hands smeared with blood, its metallic stench overpowering his senses as the heavenly host descended with their righteous indignation upon the earth. He had seen it in his mind so often that by now it felt just as real as the battlefield where he had crawled across the sodden earth to watch a young boy die in his arms, and it terrified him.

Aziraphale scrubbed at his face with his hands, trying to clear his mind from the grisly memories that clouded it, taking slow, measured breaths to slow his racing heart. He had known for a long time what was at stake. The thought of it had been driven deeply into his heart ever since he had spent the night in a bed that was not his own, a soft voice murmuring the words of a lullaby melodiously as the firelight pushed aside the shadows on the wall.

He was standing at the edge of a precipice looking down, trying not to lose his balance and fall into the gaping abyss. But always he had glanced over his shoulder, waiting for a black-clad figure to approach. A veil hung between them that they were forbidden to cross, and yet there they were, side by side before the chasm that threatened to swallow them whole. It was a dance across the centuries that could send them plummeting down with one fatal misstep.

A great despair filled Aziraphale’s chest suddenly, and his legs nearly gave way beneath him. He did not know how much longer he could bear this absence. It was one that he felt keenly now, where before it had only lingered on the edges of his awareness. In his fear, he had crossed the line unknowingly, and now this was the punishment he must endure. At times, he was filled with a fury so great that he could hardly contain it, alternating with heavy, listless days when he could barely write anything down.

For too long, he had been standing alone, gazing into the yawning maw of darkness before him, his hands stained with the blood he could not wash out of his subconscious thought. The vivacious mischief of that beloved face snuffed out for all time.

His thoughts came to a screeching halt. _Beloved?_ When he had begun to think that? Aziraphale’s face flooded with heat in his confusion.

For so long now, he had been waiting. Just a few years over a century. He knew the risk he was running was almost too great to even think of, but he could not help but wait. Just a few years more. A few decades more. Another hundred years, even. He could not help but hope.

_Please. Come back to me._

* * *

_Dumfriesshire, Scotland  
841 A.D._

A group of men heaved an enormous column of stone off the ground, dragging it under the shade of the church roof. Though they grunted with the exertion, unbeknownst to them, it was the scribe who bore the brunt of its weight – though just enough for them not to be suspicious. Carefully, they set it down on the ground as the priest nodded and solemnly thanked them for their hard work. They filed out of the church yard, leaving the scribe with the priest.

“Will you stay and wait?” The priest watched him with an inquiring look in his eyes, as though unsure what to make of him.

“Yes.” The scribe pulled a sheaf of papers seemingly out of nowhere. “I don’t mind staying, if you have other matters to attend to.”

“Well, there is something rather pressing…” The priest hesitated. “You’re certain it will be alright?”

“Yes.” He smiled, and it was like the dawn breaking. “Be at ease.”

Aziraphale’s words were accompanied with just a touch of divine power, and the priest felt the reassurance as a gentle warmth flowing into him.

“Oh, very well then. You have my thanks.” The priest smiled back at Aziraphale. “God be with you.”

How strange to be blessed by a human, Aziraphale thought, though he had nodded in thanks as the priest took his leave, leaving him alone in the churchyard. Unfurling the papers, he studied the writing carefully one last time, ensuring there were no errors. He had rendered it twice, in Latin as well as the runic alphabet, his fine even handwriting filling every page.

It was not long before he heard the gate creak open, and a strongly built man dressed in a coarse brown robe trudged up the path, carrying a heavy bag.

“Good day, sir.”

“Hello.” Aziraphale smiled at him. “You must be Brother Almund.”

“Yes.” He set his bag down on the ground, its contents clanking gently. “I’m the only one that could be spared today, but there will be more of us in the next few days.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale inclined his head graciously. “I’ve written down the poem as requested. Two versions, Latin and Old English.”

He handed the sheaf of papers to Almund, who fell silent for some time as he studied the first few pages intently.

 _Hwæt, iċ swefna cyst secgan wylle, hwæt mē ġemǣtte tō midre nihte syðþan reordberend reste wunedon_. _“Lo! I will tell the fairest of dreams, that came to me at midnight when mortal men abode in sleep.”_

He looked up at Aziraphale, his eyes filled with wonder and no small measure of respect.

“This is beautifully written. I can only hope to do it justice.”

“They are not my own words, Brother Almund. I merely wrote them down.”

“The words, yes. But the lettering work is splendid as well.” His eyes lingered on the page with an artist’s appreciation.

“You are too kind. I am certain you will do a marvellous job,” Aziraphale assured him, knowing Almund and the other monks by reputation as being some of the best stonemasons in the region. Silently, he blessed the slab of stone that lay on the ground between them.

“We’ll do our best.”

Almund smiled, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes wrinkling slightly. He bent down to unpack his bag – out came chisels, mallets, straight edges of all sizes, arranging them meticulously on the ground next to the stone, laying one of the smallest chisels on top of Aziraphale’s carefully written pages to keep them from blowing away.

“Would you mind if I stayed and watched? It’s all quite fascinating to me, since I have no skill in masonry work myself.”

“By all means.” Almund sat back on his haunches, eyeing the stone thoughtfully. “You may be waiting a while, though.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Beginning is always the most difficult part.” Almund grinned, somewhat apologetically. “The blankness can be daunting, especially for something of this scale. But once I’ve begun, it’s almost as though it just… flows through my hands, I suppose.”

“Yes. I quite understand.”

The mark of a true artist, Aziraphale realized. Years and years of developing a skill made the movements of execution near automatic. Creation almost without conscious thought, without awareness of the passage of time, a state of mind that ended with varying levels of exhaustion and exhilaration. It never failed to astound him. 

“Do take your time,” Aziraphale added quickly. “I hope my presence will not disturb you.” 

“Not at all,” Almund said.

He absently tugged his bag closer, fishing through it with one hand, pulling out a smaller chisel and mallet.

“Oh. I nearly forgot. I was supposed to give you this.”

He handed Aziraphale an envelope, sealed but unaddressed, slightly crumpled from being in a bag full of tools.

“Who is it from?” Aziraphale asked curiously.

“Not anyone I knew.” Almund shrugged and rubbed his face thoughtfully. “A man dressed all in black and wearing funny spectacles. He didn’t say much, really.”

It was as if time stopped for a moment when Aziraphale heard Almund’s words. His heart abruptly pounding hard, beating louder than a drum against his ribs.

“W – where did you see him?” His mouth was as dry as cotton, he could barely get the words out.

“Down by the marketplace yesterday. By the time I had put the envelope in my bag, he was gone. Rather odd fellow, I thought. I didn’t see him again after that.”

“I see. Thank you.”

Aziraphale turned quickly and walked away, barely knowing where his feet were taking him, until he found himself standing by the gate of the churchyard. He pushed it open and stood just beyond it. Safely away from consecrated ground.

He opened the letter slowly, his hands trembling, pulling out the carefully folded note inside. His breath caught as he unfolded it. The noontime sun shone bright and hot on the few words it contained, written in black spiky letters.

_I’ve been keeping my promise. Have you?_

Enclosed in the fine paper was a single black feather, glossy and perfect.

This is how it was between them – so many things said, in so few words as possible. He had learned this by heart by now, and Crowley’s invitations were always made silently.

Aziraphale walked slowly back to the churchyard, feeling rather as though he had no sensation in his hands and feet. Almund took one look at him and straightened up with a look of concern.

“Are you all right? I hope I wasn’t the bearer of bad news?”

Seeing the anxiety in the monk’s face, Aziraphale sought to reassure him, despite the roaring chaos in his mind. His heart was racing in his chest – no longer with fear, but with elation. _Beginning is the most difficult part._ Suddenly, he could not help it. An exultant smile broke through on his face.

“Quite the contrary. You have brought me the best news in the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I got caught up in a new South Downs fic series, but this was never far from my mind. This is a shorter chapter than usual, because I hate to draw out Aziraphale's suffering for too long. We'll definitely be seeing much more of Crowley in the next chapter!
> 
> A few historical notes! (Yes, I did actually read all of these at least in part before writing this, which is also why it took me ages...)
> 
> Moira: the book Aziraphale is working on is called the [Auraicept na n-Éces](https://archive.org/details/auraicept00calduoft/page/4/mode/2up), a 7th-century work by Irish grammarians on the Gaelic language. The name he goes by, "Anatolius", is derived from Greek and it means "sunrise" (because the sun rises in the East!)
> 
> Rendlesham: Aziraphale is working on the famous Old English epic poem [Beowulf](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50114/beowulf-modern-english-translation)! It's thought to have both Christian and pagan elements by many scholars, though this has been highly disputed by others.
> 
> Dumfriesshire: The cross being built here is the [Ruthwell Cross,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ruthwell_Cross) upon which is transcribed part of [The Dream of the Rood](http://www.yorku.ca/inpar/Dream_Rood_Kennedy.pdf), an Old English lyric thought to be one of the finest religious poems written in English.
> 
> The world is a difficult place to be in right now. I hope you're all taking care of yourselves. 
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) or [Tumblr](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)!


	11. Duiblinn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gripped the sword tightly, bracing himself as the humans surrounded him. If this didn’t call Heaven’s attention to him now, nothing would. He felt a fleeting pang of despair eclipse him – over two centuries he had waited, only to be thwarted by his own two hands.

_Duiblinn, Ireland  
842 A.D._

It had been a long and arduous journey from Scotland. Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to risk drawing Heaven’s attention with too many miracles. He had arrived just the day before and had fallen into conversation by chance with a monk who had quite unexpectedly offered him lodging at the monastery, which he had gratefully accepted.

 _Dangerous,_ Aziraphale had been told. He had heard the tales of plunder and destruction, raids sowing terror into the hearts of the townspeople. Even the journey there had told him that much. The monks had taken it upon themselves to warn him. While Aziraphale was welcome to stay with them, the monasteries were being attacked. They were specifically being targeted by the foreigners. He strove to reassure them, though his blood ran cold in his veins to hear of what they had experienced. This was where Crowley was, he was sure of it, but he feared the knowledge of how Crowley was involved.

The monastery was built on a hill, and from its topmost window Aziraphale could make out the longports that lined the distant shore. The Norse soldiers had already established more permanent encampments from their ships near the sea, and he could feel the undercurrent of tension among the monks as they moved about their duties.

There was a knock on the door behind him before it creaked open. Aziraphale turned to see the young monk who had offered him shelter the day before standing in the doorway.

“Good morning, Finnian.”

“I hope you had a restful night.” Finnian smiled, though his forehead was creased with worry. He nodded towards the window. “I fear they may come for us any day now.”

“Then we must be ready.” Aziraphale approached, blessing him unobtrusively with a gesture. “I have… some business to attend to while I am here, but I would be glad to help in any way I can.”

“We would be most grateful.” The furrow in Finnian’s forehead had relaxed with Aziraphale’s blessing. “There was something we hoped to request, if it would not be too much.”

“Please, ask.”

“Here at this monastery…” Finnian hesitated for a moment. “We have a repository of manuscripts that are the last of their kind. Too many have already been destroyed in the raids.”

Aziraphale nodded with dawning comprehension.

“What do you need?”

“Only your assistance in how we may best handle them.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale agreed immediately. “Shall we see to it now?”

Finnian’s shoulders visibly sagged with relief, and he grinned at Aziraphale.

“It can wait a little while longer. Do join us for our morning meal first.”

Finnian laughed at the way Aziraphale’s face lit up with delight at the mention of food.

* * *

“Here they are. We do not know how to take them safely elsewhere without damaging them, and many of them are works of art in themselves.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened as Finnian opened trunk after trunk filled with various books and manuscripts, many of them old and yellowing but still in wonderful condition despite their age.

“May I?” Aziraphale asked softly.

“Please.”

Aziraphale bent to inspect the contents of one trunk, gently pulling out a leather-bound tome. He opened it to reveal a beautifully illuminated Bible, its pages shimmering with fine gold and silver details, the red colour of the illustration rich and full against the paper. Truly, the monastery held a treasure trove of knowledge, certainly not the type of treasure that raiders would appreciate. His heart sank to think of all the other manuscripts that had already been destroyed. There was no question of the importance of ensuring the preservation of these last remaining texts.

“These trunks seem sturdy enough.” Aziraphale examined them carefully, running a hand over one, rapping hard on another. “What is important is to keep them dry. Moisture will destroy the paper.”

“We’ll caulk the trunks with pitch, then.”

“Yes, and wax as well, to be sure. These are well-built and have already done sufficiently well in keeping out the damp. But if you’re transporting them over a long distance, a little extra precaution will not go amiss.”

“Very well,” Finnian said, his face grave. “We cannot afford to lose these now.”

“You have done well to have collected so many.”

Finnian’s face darkened, and he shook his head.

“The bulk of the manuscripts were brought from another monastery some years ago, shortly before they were attacked. Since then, we have been amassing a collection of them in secret, to continue the work they had begun.”

Aziraphale nodded, noting with approval how the young monk took the responsibility seriously. This was a heavy burden indeed. These manuscripts were more than what they seemed – they held the history of their people, and were all the more precious now as their land was invaded by a foreign power.

“I’ll see to it myself that the manuscripts are packed securely after the trunks are caulked.”

Aziraphale began lifting out the bundles of papers and books from one trunk to place them carefully on the table, waving Finnian off when he tried to help.

“You are needed elsewhere. I can take care of this on my own.”

Finnian set the pile of books down reluctantly on the table, wavering.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m certain of it. Go on.”

Finnian hesitated, then inclined his head gratefully before leaving the room, shutting the door behind him with a click. Aziraphale continued emptying the trunks of their contents slowly. Though his hands were busy, he was preoccupied with his own thoughts. His eyes fell upon the old Bible which lay on the table. Fascinated as he had been with the fine illumination, only now did he register the words on the page.

_And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die: For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil._

* * *

Aziraphale lay in bed reading, a small white light floating over his head. A square patch of moonlight spilled into the tiny room through the window, and all was quiet for a long while. But after some time, he fancied he could hear a disturbance outside, faintly in the distance. Just as he rose to his feet to check, there was a loud pounding on his door. He snapped his fingers quickly to extinguish the light, rushing to the door and opening it quickly to see Finnian, fully dressed despite the lateness of the hour, his face white with fear.

“They are coming. We must go now.”

As they hurried down the winding stairs, the noise grew in volume. He could hear voices shouting, footsteps running fast down the halls.

“Please, we need help with the manuscripts.”

“Of course.”

Aziraphale set off towards the tiny room that housed the monastery’s precious collection as Finnian turned down another hallway. Thankfully, the corridor was quite deserted. Aziraphale lifted the manuscripts out of the room with his angelic strength, two enormous trunks at a time, hastening to finish before anyone could see him. Just as he set down the last of the trunks, he heard footsteps rushing down the hallway, and looked up to see Finnian flanked by four other burly monks, who all stopped short to see Aziraphale surrounded by all the trunks the room had held. Finnian’s eyes were wide with disbelief, but just as he was about to speak, there was a loud crash outside the monastery. Aziraphale took advantage of the momentary distraction with relief.

“We must hurry,” he said, urging them forward. “They’ll be here any moment.”

The four monks looked at each other and nodded. They paired off, lifting a trunk between them and carrying them down the hall to the back of the monastery where the wagons were. Finnian bent to pick up the end of one trunk, but Aziraphale shook his head at the young monk, pretending to brace himself before picking up the entire trunk himself. Finnian stood open-mouthed, goggling at him in amazement. Aziraphale nearly wanted to laugh, but there simply wasn’t time.

“Finnian, do stop staring and show me where to go!”

Finnian shut his mouth with a snap and gulped visibly before steeling himself. He jerked his head towards the direction that the other monks had gone and hurried down the hallway. Aziraphale followed, albeit at a slower pace, worrying that perhaps he had gone too far in revealing himself. Oh well, he supposed. Too late now.

Monks rushed by them as they loaded the trunks into the wagon, most of them carrying supplies, some of them even carrying shields and daggers. The more elderly monks were being helped into another wagon loaded with various foodstuffs and essentials. Aziraphale could hear the commotion building, the urgency of the voices mounting as they ran back down the hallway. As he lifted another trunk, he could hear shouting in an unfamiliar language coming from outside, the smell of smoke filling the air.

“They’re here!”

“Hurry!”

The monks grunted with effort as they lifted the trunks. Already, they were going so much more slowly than they were earlier, and they strained under the considerable weight that they carried. Impulsively, Aziraphale blessed them with a thought, sending strength through their bodies to help them fight their exhaustion. A third time, they returned to the corridor, carrying the trunks of manuscripts out to the wagons.

As Aziraphale set down the trunk he carried, a loud shout echoed through the corridors of the monastery. The monks froze with fear where they stood at the sudden clamour, staring at each other in the darkness, lost for words.

“Go! Go, now!” Aziraphale shouted.

His words were the cry that spurred them to action. The whinnying of horses added to the din as many of the loaded wagons began departing through the path that led past the monastery. A hand gripped his arm urgently.

“There’s still another trunk in there,” Finnian said despairingly, his face pale with terror.

“We’ll take care of it. Stay here.”

“Wait!”

But Aziraphale had set off down the darkened corridor once more, two monks following him, their footsteps echoing through the halls as the shouts grew closer and closer. As they reached the last trunk of manuscripts, a group of soldiers rounded the corner, their war-drunk faces cast in sharp relief by the torches they carried. There was a great shout, and they were running towards Aziraphale and the monks. Aziraphale looked around and saw that one of the monks carried a sword. He took it from him quickly, paying no heed to his objections.

“Hurry! They’re waiting for you!”

The two monks faltered but recovered themselves quickly, lifting the trunk up between them and hurrying back to the exit. Aziraphale ran after them, holding up as much of the weight as he could with one hand, until they reached the wagon where Finnian stood waiting for them anxiously. It was the only wagon remaining; the rest had departed already with their precious cargo of monks and the monastery's treasures.

The two monks heaved the trunk into the wagon, gasping with exertion. Aziraphale laid a hand on the wagon’s frame, blessing it quietly. _Keep them safe._ Helping hands pulled the monks into the wagon as Aziraphale stayed by the monastery's exit, his gaze fixed on the approaching soldiers.

“I’ll hold them off! Go, go!”

Finnian shouted in vain for Aziraphale to get in the wagon with them, reaching a hand out towards him, but the other monks held him back as the wagon at last started down the path away from the monastery.

Aziraphale stood alone, holding the sword aloft as the humans rushed down the corridor. For a moment, the passage of minutes slowed, and he was transported back into another time where he had held a sword, aflame with holy fire, as a horde of angels had come upon him. Another time, another place. So long ago, and yet it felt as though it had only happened yesterday. The memory of it crept into his body. He had been a warrior, once.

He gripped the sword tightly, bracing himself as the humans surrounded him. If this didn’t call Heaven’s attention to him now, nothing would. He felt a fleeting pang of despair eclipse him – over two centuries he had waited, only to be thwarted by his own two hands.

Suddenly, there was a flash of light in the yard, so brilliant that even Aziraphale squinted against the glow. In the midst of the light, there was a whirlwind of fire, white-hot and scorching. A form manifested itself in the vivid blaze with two sets of wings as dark as night, a head crowned with flame-red hair. The sword clattered to the ground by Aziraphale’s side as he stared in awe at the sight, caught in its mesmerizing splendour. He heard a voice speak into the emptiness as the noise of a host, the very blades of grass trembling with the echoing might of its power.

_“Stay your hands.”_

The soldiers swayed where they stood before falling to their knees, collapsing entirely onto the ground, unable to move under the sheer weight of that being’s will. Aziraphale gasped and his heartbeat quickened in his chest, recognizing the pitch of that extraordinary voice. He stood transfixed as the unearthly form obscured by the fiery tornado turned towards him, the terrible beauty of that face chiseled sharply by the light of the flames. The apparition burned brightly before him, searing the image into his mind, a rapture that was nearly divine.

Aziraphale could barely catch his breath as the light dimmed before his eyes, his heart still pounding hard. A lithe figure stood before him, golden eyes still blazing in the moonlight. The face that had dwelled in his mind for so long was finally here before him, holding a smirk that deceived no one.

“Was that enough for you, angel? What else will it take to convince you?”

All capacity for coherent thought had left Aziraphale. Slowly, he walked forward. His hands moved of their own accord, one burying itself in the auburn hair rendered dark in the starlight, the other wrapping itself around the narrow waist, pulling the warmth of Crowley's body close against his own in the silence of the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, okay, this chapter took a completely different direction from what I'd originally planned, but I'm really not sorry. A few notes:
> 
> Dublin was founded in 841 A.D., when the Norse invaders made a permanent settlement with their longships on Irish shores. The name "Dublin" comes from the Gaelic _dubh linn_ or “black pool.” 
> 
> The words and description of "angel" Crowley come from Ezekiel 1 and 2 Samuel 24:16. The words in the Bible Aziraphale found are from Genesis 3:4-5 KJV. 
> 
> The name Finnian comes from the Gaelic word _finn_ , meaning fair. It is the name of two saints of significance, Finnian of Clonard in County Meath and Finnian of Moville in County Down.
> 
> [Irish monasteries](http://www.irelandseye.com/irish/people/settlers/vikings2.shtm) were often the most secure buildings in a locality. This meant that valuables, surplus food and sometimes even cattle were brought there in times of political unrest.
> 
> I committed to publishing a new chapter every other week, but I got too excited about this one. Hope you like it! <3 Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) or [Tumblr](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)!


	12. Chang'an

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley was gazing at Aziraphale openly now. She could feel the heat of his gaze raking across her behind the dark spectacles he wore, and her breath quickened as he leaned towards her once more, less than an arm’s length away. He held out to her the fruit from the bowl, sitting neatly in his palm. A deep red pomegranate, the exact same shade as her gown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone that's been keeping up with this fic! Just wanted to let you know I did a minor re-write of the first two chapters (for consistency in tone, in case you want to go back and re-read).
> 
> Also you might notice there's finally an endpoint to the chapter count! Please keep in mind this is only an estimate based on the outline I have going right now - it may end up being longer!! Let's see how it goes!
> 
> Lastly, I want to give credit to one of the first GO fics I ever read. This chapter was absolutely inspired by the amazing fic [Samson: A Duet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20252062/chapters/47999731).

_Chang’an, China  
868 A.D._

The ladies of the court trailed down the field, their laughter echoing gaily. Aziraphale had never worn her corporation in a female form, but she found that after the first few awkward days, she quite enjoyed it. It had been over seven hundred years since she had last been in the Middle Kingdom, and how different it was now from before. Here she was, surrounded by women, all of them clad in riding clothes and boots that had once been reserved exclusively for men, returning from a lively game of polo. She smiled to herself. It was a good time to be a woman in this dynasty.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Princess Tongchang grabbing her arm suddenly.

“Look, Zhinu,” she whispered excitedly.

The princess pointed to the group approaching them. Aziraphale could just make out the princess’s husband, flanked by some of the top officials of the court, and some others she recognized as being members of the wealthy families of the city, though she was not personally acquainted with them. She groaned internally. By far, the most tedious part of this assignment was constantly being teased about finding a husband. As cosmopolitan as Chang’an was these days, that still hadn’t changed. Nevertheless, she smiled at Princess Tongchang.

“I suppose it’s their turn to play, Your Highness.”

“Yes. But before that, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

“Oh, there’s really no need for that,” Aziraphale tried to demur as politely as she could.

“Now, don’t be shy. You know my beloved husband’s brother has spoken of your beauty on more than one occasion.” The princess’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Your Highness, I would much prefer not to –”

“Here they come now,” she interrupted Aziraphale mid-protest. Taking her by the arm, she approached her husband, a smile lighting up her fine features.

“Your Highness. How did you all fare in today’s match?” Yunyong smiled at his wife with a small bow, greeting her and the ladies of the court now gathered behind Aziraphale and Princess Tongchang. They giggled quietly, bowing in return.

“It was a splendid game, dear husband. A shame you could not have watched.” She turned to bow back to the men who stood behind her husband, all of whom had bowed courteously when they had approached. “I do believe not all of us are acquainted with each other yet.”

Yunyong raised his eyebrows at the princess before beckoning to the men. A strongly built man stepped forward, his face bearing a great resemblance to Yunyong’s.

“May I present my younger brother, Wei Baoyin?”

“I would like you to meet Lady Zhinu,” Princess Tongchang announced, tugging Aziraphale forward slightly.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady.”

Despite herself, Aziraphale felt a light flush rise to her face at the clear admiration in Baoyin’s dark eyes as he bowed. Princess Tongchang grinned impishly as the ladies behind Aziraphale tittered.

“Oh, there is someone else here you have not met. One of our newly-promoted officials, just formally announced a few days ago.”

Yunyong gestured as the men parted, allowing one of their group to step forward from his place at the back. His auburn hair was tied into an elegant knot, eyes hidden behind a pair of small dark spectacles.

“The new Minister, Niulang.”

“Your Highness, it is a great honour to meet you at last.” Crowley bowed to the princess.

Aziraphale was frozen in place, her face burning, barely registering the approving whispers of the ladies of the court behind her.

“I had heard the news. My well wishes on your promotion, Minister. Will we have the pleasure of seeing you at dinner tonight?” Princess Tongchang inquired graciously.

“I thank you, Your Highness. I would be honoured to join you.”

More pleasantries were exchanged, and the proper farewells were made, yet Crowley made no sign of recognizing Aziraphale, who had stood next to the princess during the entire exchange. As they resumed walking, the princess took one look at Aziraphale’s face and gasped, her eyes widening.

“What have we here? Has someone _finally_ caught the eye of the beautiful Lady Zhinu?”

“N – no, Your Highness, I –”

“Come now, you must tell me!” Princess Tongchang exclaimed gleefully. “We will be seeing him again tonight. We must be prepared.”

“We have met before, that is all.” Aziraphale tried to will herself to stop blushing, but for some reason, it didn’t seem to be working. Why in Heaven was she so _flustered_?

“Is that so? But he didn’t even acknowledge you, the scoundrel! There is a story here, and I will have it. Was he an old flame, perhaps?”

“No!” Aziraphale didn’t think it was possible, but she blushed even harder. “Nothing like that, Your Highness. We aren’t even friends.”

The princess nodded solemnly, but her eyes were dancing.

“This feels as though it was written in the stars, Zhinu. Tonight, things will change. I am sure of it.”

* * *

Aziraphale stood before the mirror, her hands twisting together anxiously. Princess Tongchang had sent a beautifully elegant gown, made in the latest fashion, with instructions for her to wear it to the feast that evening. There was an implicit warning that the princess would brook no objections.

The gown’s skirt was crimson, with delicate blossoms embroidered in gold. The long sleeves were filmy and clung softly to her arms and shoulders, the material so sheer that it left practically nothing to the imagination. Aziraphale blushed at how low the gown was cut in the front, revealing more than a hint of her cleavage, accentuated by a necklace with a golden pendant shaped like a pair of wings.

Aziraphale came closer to the mirror to examine her makeup. Her face had been carefully powdered, her cheeks rouged, her lips touched coral red. A small plum blossom was painted in red on her forehead. Her hair was coiled in a graceful knot high on her head, with a simple gold and white pin holding it in place.

She sat back down, holding her trembling hands together in her lap. Crowley was going to think she looked _ridiculous_. This female form didn’t suit her at all. The gown was entirely too much, and not at all her colour. She shook her head as if to clear it, sighing with frustration. What was she so worried about, anyway?

As if needing no further prompting, her thoughts turned to the last time she had seen Crowley. How she had forgotten herself entirely in the moment he had manifested himself, so near divinity that she could have blasphemed. After so many centuries, how could she have allowed herself to slip like that? She pressed her hand to her lips, her eyes tightly shut in mortification.

There was a knock on the door, and a young maid entered, bowing deferentially.

“The honourable Princess requests your presence, my lady."

* * *

“You look simply lovely,” Princess Tongchang said, nodding approvingly with a smile, inspecting Aziraphale from head to toe with a critical eye. “I knew this gown would be perfect for tonight. But why did you not wear the gold combs I sent? I picked them out specifically to match the embroidery.”

“As much as I appreciated it, it would have been too much, Your Highness.”

“Oh, very well,” the princess sighed, pouting slightly. “I only wanted you to look your best, you know.”

Aziraphale flushed slightly, glancing surreptitiously around the room.

“I assure you, there was really no need –”

“Good evening, Your Highness.”

Aziraphale whirled around. Crowley was dressed fashionably in purple silk robes, as befitted a top court official, but in a shade so dark they appeared black. Scarlet embroidery coiled along the edges of the silk in a serpentine pattern, and a heavy silver chain lay around his neck. It did not escape Aziraphale’s notice that several of the ladies were eyeing Crowley with great interest, and she suddenly felt unaccountably irritated. He bowed in a formal greeting.

“Please excuse this interruption. I wished to apologize to the Lady Zhinu. I had not been able to speak to her earlier today, when we saw each other.”

Crowley was addressing the princess, but his gaze was fixed firmly on Aziraphale’s face.

“Not at all, Minister. I can spare her for a few minutes.” Princess Tongchang was grinning from ear to ear at Aziraphale’s confused blush, and she departed to join her husband, who was chatting with his brother near the centre of the room. Aziraphale turned to make sure that she had gone, before turning back to Crowley.

“What in Heaven’s name are you doing here?” Aziraphale demanded.

“I thought you’d be delighted to see me.” Crowley’s eyebrow was raised, his voice teasing.

“Delighted? This was the last thing I was expecting to happen today!”

“Mm, and yet, you can’t say you weren’t pleased.” Crowley’s lips curved into a knowing smirk. “Why don’t you wear your corporation like this more?”

Aziraphale dropped her eyes, suddenly self-conscious under Crowley’s gaze.

“It was just part of the assignment. That’s all.”

“A crying shame, that. Isn’t this a pomegranate skirt? Very chic now in the capital.”

This had the immediate effect of making Aziraphale even more flustered. She silently thanked God that her hair had been knotted loosely enough to cover her ears, because they were flaming with embarrassment.

“I told the princess we weren’t even friends, and here you are making a scene.”

“Believe me, angel. If I wanted to make a scene, I would have done it already,” he said, bending to murmur the last few words close to her ear.

“Crowley!”

He grinned, glancing up in the direction of the princess and her husband, surrounded now by a large group of chattering ladies and court officials.

“I have to say, it’s impossible not to notice all the covetous looks being thrown your way. I’m particularly enjoying the fit of jealousy the royal consort’s brother is having. I didn’t even have to do anything to make that happen. Or did I?”

Crowley’s voice remained light, but when he looked at Aziraphale, she caught a flash of something razor-sharp in his golden eyes, just visible over the rim of his spectacles. She couldn’t resist pursing her lips at him, her chin lifted high despite the flush that had renewed itself on her face.

“Just a silly infatuation, I expect. I certainly had nothing to do with it.”

“I beg to differ. You look magnificent.” He stepped closer, his voice unexpectedly sincere. “Red suits you.”

“Oh, hush. Half the imperial court is in this room.”

Crowley smirked, sparing one last contemptuous glance at Wei Baoyin before turning back to Aziraphale, his gaze fixed firmly on her face.

“I’ll write them up as bonus points for my report, I suppose. But that’s not why I’m here.”

“What is it, then?” Aziraphale was immediately suspicious.

“I’m working on a new project. Can’t tell you all the details about it yet, but for it to work, I need the princess to agree to play a drinking game.”

Princess Tongchang was well-known for her dislike of excessive amounts of alcohol at royal gatherings with the court. She felt that it wasn’t appropriate for dignified settings, which Aziraphale quite agreed with.

“What does that have to do with me?”

“I got you out of a tight spot last time, didn’t I?”

Aziraphale found that suddenly, she could not look at Crowley. Her fingers entwined themselves together tightly.

“Yes. And I – I was very grateful.”

“It’s just a little temptation, angel. That’s all I’m asking. Wouldn’t even take a miracle.”

Aziraphale sighed, mulling it over. She _did_ owe Crowley, after the way he had saved her from getting discorporated – or from calling Gabriel’s attention to herself in the worst way possible.

“Fine,” she snapped. “After dinner.”

“Of course.” Crowley grinned. “I hear the princess always serves the best food at her feasts.”

Aziraphale turned to him, her eyebrows raised. But before she could speak, they were all called to sit at the enormous dining table. The princess seated herself directly across Aziraphale, smiling jubilantly to see Crowley seated at Aziraphale’s left. Try as she might, Aziraphale couldn’t help smiling back.

Platters upon platters of food were served until the table was creaking under the weight of the royal delicacies. Oysters cooked in wine, lamb roasted with spices, pufferfish and horseshoe crabs, chickens stuffed with all manner of delicacies. Sweetmeats, chestnuts and walnuts dotted the table, and bowls of fruit overflowed at every corner. Plates of steamed cakes covered in sesame seeds were placed before each of them, along with small bowls of steamed grain.

Attendants surrounded the table, filling and refilling their cups with a fine golden wine. Aziraphale helped herself to a portion of each dish that was within reach, and enjoyed herself heartily, but she saw out of the corner of her eye that only a small sesame seed cake lay on Crowley’s plate, divided into pieces but otherwise untouched. She wondered anew to herself why he refused to eat, though the attendants had refilled his cup several times already.

“The woodblocks were one of yours, weren’t they?” Crowley asked suddenly.

Aziraphale hesitated, surprised by the question.

“Yes. How could you tell?”

“Very efficient way of printing. Seemed like the sort of thing you would come up with.” Crowley’s mouth turned up at the corner. “For your books, and all.”

“I’ve spent enough time writing literature by hand, thank you very much.”

Crowley made an odd noise in his throat.

“Didn’t happen to do one of _Beowulf,_ did you?”

Aziraphale choked on her mouthful of lamb.

“How – how did you know about that?”

“Some human I got round to talking to a few decades ago or so wouldn’t shut up about it. Showed me the copy he had. I thought the handwriting was familiar.”

Aziraphale took a sip of tea to clear her throat and regain her composure. She had only ever written a single letter to Crowley, the last time she had been in China seven centuries ago. For him to recognize her penmanship on sight, purely on the basis of a few lines she had written? She blushed at the implications of his remark.

“What were _you_ doing the past two hundred years?”

“Oh, you know. Travelled here and there, saw the sights. Lots of interesting things going on in the world these days,” he mused.

This was the closest they had ever come to speaking of their separation after Crowley’s unexpected outburst, which until now Aziraphale did not quite fully understand. They had tacitly resumed their places, continuing the familiar steps of their millennia-long dance, ever aware of the line that had been drawn between them. There were no apologies said, no excuses made. After all, what explanations could hereditary enemies give each other?

Her heart ached suddenly. Even in Ireland, they had clung to each other only for the briefest of seconds before Crowley had gently extricated himself – _too many eyes on us now, angel, try not to get into any more trouble while I’m gone_ – years and years of stifled emotions poured headlong into a fleeting embrace. It had been a reconciliation, but they had never spoken of it again.

Aziraphale was momentarily distracted from her thoughts as Crowley leaned in her direction to take a piece of fruit from the bowl before her. The movement sent a whiff of his scent towards her, and for a split second, her mind went completely blank. No matter how he looked, that was always the same. Undertones of wood, cinnamon, something she couldn’t quite place her finger on, but she would recognize in an instant as _Crowley_ – and it never failed to stir something visceral in her.

She reached for her cup and drained it, her eyes fixed on her other hand, clenched into a tight fist under the table, willing her corporation back under her control. She took stock of the number of humans around them furtively. It wouldn’t do to give the court any reason to start rumours, it would only make their assignments more complicated than they already were.

Crowley was gazing at her openly now. She could feel the heat of his gaze raking across her behind the dark spectacles he wore, and her breath quickened as he leaned towards her once more, less than an arm’s length away. He held out to her the fruit from the bowl, sitting neatly in his palm. A deep red pomegranate, the exact same shade as her gown.

She flicked her eyes up at Crowley. His expression was enigmatic, and his eyes were well-concealed by his glasses. Two could play at this game, she thought, suddenly emboldened. Always, she was painfully aware of so many things passing between them, a near-constant undercurrent of all the words that they left unsaid. But this, she understood quite clearly, and he was absurd to think he could tease her like this in front of half the court.

She took the pomegranate from him, allowing her fingertips to drag slowly across his warm palm as she lifted the fruit out of his hand. Her eyelashes lay demurely against her cheeks as she heard the sharp intake of breath beside her, though her heartbeat was racing. It sent a quiet thrill up her spine, knowing they were in the midst of a crowd, many of whom had likely been watching them since the evening began.

“You are trying me, angel,” Crowley said after a few moments, his voice pitched so low it was nearly a growl.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said sweetly, tucking the pomegranate into a pocket concealed in her skirt.

* * *

Much later that night, Aziraphale sat on one of the elegant couches beside Princess Tongchang, who was leaning on Aziraphale’s arm.

“That was rather fun, wasn’t it?” The princess’s cheeks were glowing pink, her eyes bright with wine and excitement. Her brother-in-law was slumped over a chair in a corner of the room, fast asleep with his mouth hanging wide open.

“It was, Your Highness.” Aziraphale smiled. She looked up at the table where Crowley was holding a rowdy drinking game with the woodblock-printed wine cards he’d brought, and the twinge of her conscience subsided to a quiet hum as she gazed at his exuberant smile.

* * *

Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief, safely ensconced in her chambers once more. It had been a long evening, and while it had been quite enjoyable on the whole, it had been rather too boisterous for her taste. She sat by the mirror, her senses still pleasantly fogged with wine, surveying her reflection one last time before carefully undoing the sash that held her gown shut. As she did so, she became aware of something heavy against her leg. She reached into the pocket and pulled out the small pomegranate that Crowley had handed to her during the feast.

For a moment, Crowley’s half-growled words came to mind, and she felt a flash of unutterable heat run through her corporation. She dropped the fruit on the table as if it had burned her. Quickly, she snapped her fingers to whisk the gown into a neatly folded pile, miracling her face fresh and clean of makeup. As she lifted the bright red silks into the elegant cedar chest it had arrived in, she noticed a folded piece of paper lying under the golden combs that she had chosen not to wear that evening.

Gently, Aziraphale laid the gown back on the table to unfold the note, written in Princess Tongchang’s elegant calligraphy.

金風玉露一相逢， One meeting of the Cowherd and Weaver amidst the golden autumn wind and jade-glistening dew,

便勝卻人間無數。 eclipses the countless meetings in the mundane world.

Two lines from a poem that sounded vaguely familiar. She studied it for a few moments, trying to recall through the haze of alcohol –

Suddenly, it fell into place. She gasped with the weight of it, her hand tight against her racing heart, feeling rather as though she had had the breath knocked out of her lungs. In choosing her name for her assignment, she had decided on a name from an old folktale. _Zhinu_ , the weaver of clouds, an immortal who had descended from Heaven.

After all the excitement of the day, only now did it occur to her what name Crowley was using. _Niulang,_ the cowherd of the celestial herds, banished from Heaven… because he had dared to love Zhinu, when love between immortals was an offense against the Heavenly Mother.

Aziraphale sank down into the chair, her fingers pressed tightly against her mouth. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror – the pupils of her eyes blown wide, the pink flush creeping down her chest. It was completely silent, apart from the wind rustling through the trees outside, but the rush of blood in her ears was so loud she could barely hear herself think. It mattered to Crowley, what he was named. He would never have chosen even a fictitious name at random. His name was who he was.

The silence was broken by a soft knock at the door. Aziraphale started, then frowned – she had requested the maids not to attend to her that evening, knowing that the feast would doubtless end very late. She crossed the room and opened the door just a crack, preparing herself to give the maids a gentle telling-off and send them to bed. But to her utter surprise, there was a tall figure dressed in court robes standing outside her door, the moonlight catching on the silver chain he wore.

“Crowley!” She gasped under her breath, quickly peeking up and down the hallway. “You’re going to get us into the worst scandal this court has ever known!”

“Tempting as that may be, I’m not an _idiot,_ Aziraphale. All the trouble I cause is completely intentional.”

“What are you doing here?”

Aziraphale noticed suddenly that Crowley was leaning rather heavily against the doorframe, and that his glasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose unnoticed. He held up a jug of wine.

“Thought you might want a nightcap.”

She sighed. This was a terrible, terrible idea.

“Oh, alright. But only one jug, then you need to leave.”

“That’s no fun,” Crowley grumbled.

Aziraphale let him in, resealing the wards as soon as she shut the door. When she turned around, Crowley was standing in the middle of the room, surveying every inch intently.

“Yours is nicer than mine,” he commented, his words slurring together slightly.

“I am the princess’s confidante, you know.”

“Well, pardon me, _my lady_. I’m only the Prime Minister’s second-in-command.”

Aziraphale rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. Crowley handed her a jug of wine identical to the one he carried.

“What? You said one jug.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “I’m just abiding by the rules.”

She took the cup Crowley gave her and glared at him as he filled it from his own jug of wine.

“I have been drinking all evening, and you need to catch up.”

“That was entirely your doing, and you have no one but yourself to blame for being drunk.”

“Who said I was blaming _anyone_? _”_ Crowley grinned at her. “Being drunk is great.”

He took a swig straight out of the jug and wandered to look out the window. Aziraphale crossed the room to sit at her table, placing the jug of wine down delicately before taking a drink from her cup.

“Anyway, I came by to let you know that the first phase of my project was a success.”

“Hmph.” Aziraphale pursed her lips. She did _not_ want to think about her involvement in this. Crowley held up his jug with a smirk, as if toasting her, and took another drink.

“Told you it’d be easy.”

“That’s not the point, Crowley.”

“ _My_ point is, is there something you’d like me to do for you while I’m in Chengdu?”

Aziraphale looked up at him quickly, her eyes wide.

“Are you leaving?”

“Yep,” Crowley said, popping his lips on the P. “Heading out bright and early tomorrow. Or later, I suppose, since it’s already tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale couldn’t keep the note of disappointment out of her voice. Crowley had come to say _goodbye_. It was probably best this way – it would be much too dangerous for them to be in close quarters for too long, but to be separated again so soon? She was mortified to feel her throat closing up, and hastily took a long drink of wine.

When she set her cup down on the table, she looked up and was startled to see Crowley’s reflection in the mirror, standing behind her with his face hidden in shadow. Wordlessly, he stepped forward and picked up the jug of wine to refill her cup.

“Well, angel? Anything?”

“No,” she answered, rather too quickly. “Let’s save it for another time.”

Crowley gazed at her in the mirror, his expression inscrutable.

“Nice hair pin, by the way,” he said at last, apropos of nothing.

Aziraphale coloured slightly, remembering that she had been in the middle of getting undressed before Crowley had arrived, and that she was hardly in a fit state to be seen by anyone.

“Thank you. The princess didn’t quite approve of it.”

“Probably because it wasn’t flashy enough for her taste,” Crowley snorted. “Though I do think you should’ve gone with red instead. To match the dress.”

“It’s fashionable!” Aziraphale protested.

“Between the two of us, I think we both know that I know better.”

Without warning, Crowley reached up to the elegant knot on top of his head and deftly pulled out a hair pin, sending his long hair tumbling in waves around his face. As Aziraphale gazed at his reflection in the mirror with astonishment, he held up the pin, muted crimson tipped with black lacquer, a silent appeal in his eyes, just barely visible. After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded.

Crowley gently pulled out the golden pin from her hair, undoing the tight knot. She inhaled sharply as he gathered her hair up in his hands, his fingers running against her scalp as he combed through the tangles. His touch was like fire, heat coursing through her with every gentle tug of her hair in his hands. How she longed to shut her eyes, to bask in the sheer pleasure of it. He was standing so close that she caught the familiar scent of him once more, so much more compelling now that he was but mere inches away from her, and she _did_ close her eyes for a brief moment, breathing in deeply, recommitting that scent to memory, so heady that she was drunk with it.

She watched Crowley in the mirror as he worked, cleverly twisting her hair into a softer knot, so that a few loose strands framed her face. Gently, he fastened it into place with the pin he had removed from his own hair, and finally looked up, gazing straight at her in the mirror, his face slightly flushed.

“There,” he breathed. Aziraphale gazed back at him, just for the span of a breath. His voice was little more than a rasp in his throat. “ _Beautiful_.”

She tore her eyes away from his and picked up her cup of wine. He stepped forward, grabbing his jug of wine and clinking it against her cup before she could take a sip. He was listing slightly to the right as he took a long drink. She couldn’t keep herself from smiling despite the lump in her throat. _Ridiculous demon._

“Well, let me know if you change your mind. You know – write to me. Or something.”

“Only if I need to,” she said softly.

Crowley stared down at her for a long moment, an odd look on his face. He shrugged and turned to face the mirror once more. As he did so, Aziraphale saw in the mirror the exact moment that his gaze fell on the pomegranate that lay on the table.

The heat rose to her cheeks at the look on Crowley’s face, a myriad of emotions in a split second of vulnerability that even his glasses could not conceal – trepidation and longing, a hint of apprehension. Inexplicably, she remembered the next few lines of the poem the princess had sent. _The feelings soft as water, the ecstatic moment unreal as a dream._ Swiftly, he reined himself back in, schooling his expression back into its usual impenetrable mask.

“Feeling peckish, angel?”

Without waiting for an answer, he reached over and picked up the pomegranate, examining it briefly before breaking it apart easily in his hands. He laid one half down on the table, its ripe seeds glistening in the lamp light, and held the other half out to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale’s mouth had gone dry, and her heart was beating so hard that she was lightheaded. Centuries of practice had taught her by now that the words they left hanging in the air were infinitely more significant than those that they spoke, and Crowley’s invitations were always silent.

For one wild moment, Aziraphale considered the possibility that Crowley’s assignment on Earth all these thousands of years was to tempt her. Certainly, it would have earned him a significant commendation. But no – she could see the truth in his eyes, tight with anxiety. Crowley held the forbidden fruit in his hand, but this was no temptation. What he offered now, he offered freely, without expectation and almost without hope. This was Crowley’s heart split open for her to do as she wished, and he was waiting for her answer.

Could she survive this? It was almost too painful to bear, to understand each other so fully with barely a word or touch passing between them. To know that they would have only a few precious days in each century, to speak in only the most innocuous of phrases, to touch for no longer than a few seconds.

But she knew, even as the words would not, could not ever be spoken – it would be infinitely more unbearable to have nothing at all.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s wrist and pulled him towards her. She bent forward to gently suck the seeds from the fruit, right out of Crowley’s hand. The seeds burst as she bit down, the juice tangy and sweet on her tongue. Crowley watched her, transfixed, as she licked her lips, drops of juice running down her chin.

Suddenly, the moment shattered as Crowley abruptly pulled his wrist from her grasp. Aziraphale flinched at the look of horror on his face.

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale whispered in dismay. Had she missed something? Did she misstep again?

“Angel, I –” Crowley cut himself off, looked down at the fruit in his hand, the red juice staining his fingers. He shut his eyes tightly.

“Crowley, tell me!”

“Look at yourself,” he said, his voice low.

_What?_

Aziraphale was completely lost, until she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and saw pomegranate juice streaking down the snow-white underrobe she wore.

“I – I’ve _soiled you.”_

She jerked her head up, thoroughly alarmed at the anguish in his voice, the hiss that had escaped through his teeth.

“Oh, my dear. No. _No._ ”

His lips quivered, as though he wanted to speak, but could not. Aziraphale stood up, her arms raised as she approached him, but he recoiled from her. She stopped a few feet away from him.

“Nothing’s happened!”

“Nothing _yet_.” Crowley’s eyes were wild, golden to the edges, and he shuddered.

Aziraphale couldn’t stand it any longer. She rushed to him, touched his face tentatively.

“Crowley, please,” she whispered, and her voice broke. “ _Please.”_

“Why do you have to make this so fucking _unbearable?”_ Crowley snarled, and pulled his glasses off, flinging them away into the darkness of the room. Aziraphale gasped as he suddenly pulled her flush against him, his lips capturing hers in a searing kiss.

The hair pin fell with a clatter to the ground as Crowley’s hand fisted itself in her hair, his other hand gripping her hip urgently. Aziraphale felt as though she was drowning, unable to draw breath, everything too much and yet still not enough. Desire burned through her, fire in her veins setting every inch of her skin alight. She wrapped her arms around Crowley’s neck, panting for air against his lips, her mind full of nothing but Crowley and his scent and his taste and his warmth _–_

He pulled away from her, his breath coming fast, a warm hand cupping her face. Aziraphale whined and tried to tug him closer, but he held her firmly away from him.

“Aziraphale.”

Crowley was about to say something, she could see him steeling himself to say it, and she could feel her heart being crushed under the weight of the words that were about to fall from his lips.

“Crowley, no. Don’t say it, _please don’t_ –”

“Forget this. Forget tonight ever happened. We can’t –” Crowley took a deep shuddering breath. “You _know_ we can’t.”

Aziraphale clutched the front of his robes tightly, her vision clouding. Crowley’s words opened up a gaping hole in her chest, and she struggled to breathe through the agony. She could feel his heart racing under her hand.

“You can’t ask me to _forget_. I won’t. Not ever.” Her lips were trembling. If Crowley let her go now, she would fall into a thousand pieces.

“We’ll still have –”

“Don’t you _dare_ say we have an arrangement!”

At that, Crowley drew her closer, kissed her again, softly this time. He murmured to her quietly, trying to soothe her. Her cheeks were damp with moisture, and she didn’t know if they were Crowley’s tears or her own. He pressed his forehead against hers, his eyes clenched shut.

“We have to go back to the way things were. I can’t – if anything happens to you, I’ll –”

Now Aziraphale understood – Crowley had his own nightmares. Perhaps in his, an angel falls into the inescapable yawning darkness, wings burning to a crisp in the dazzling blue of boiling sulphur. She shuddered, remembering her own hands smeared dark red with blood. This was all they would have. Half-spoken sentences, trusting each other to fill in the silent blanks of the words that could not pass through their lips, for fear that they would be destroyed.

She hung her head in defeat. There was nothing more she could say. She longed to sink to her knees and beg him to stay with her, but she knew that even if she tried, her voice would not give shape to the words.

“Come find me again,” she murmured, forcing her hands to release the purple silk from her grasp.

“Always, angel. I promise. Always.”

Aziraphale closed her eyes as Crowley pressed his lips to her forehead gently, like a benediction, the light touch of his hand smoothing her hair away from her face. When she opened her eyes, he was gone.

She bent down, picking up the fallen hair pin from the floor with her trembling fingers. Her mind was curiously blank, her entire corporation heavy with grief. She sat at her table and mechanically began pulling her hair through her fingers, arranging the unruly waves into a messy knot and pinning it into place with the lacquered pin. She surveyed herself for a moment, the black tip of the pin in sharp relief against the lightness of her hair, her face streaked with tears, her lips bruised red.

A wild fury rose in her suddenly. _I love him. I love him, and I can never have him._ A sob escaped her throat. She took the halved pomegranate and ate until there were no seeds left, as if every last seed would bind her to Crowley, until not even Heaven or Hell could keep them apart. The pomegranate husk fell to the floor from her numb fingers as she gazed at herself in the mirror, her white underrobe covered in red, and saw a part of herself that she had never acknowledged before, ravenous and possessive, shrouded in shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favourite chapter so far - and the longest, clocking in at just over 6k words. Thank you to [offgray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/offgray) for being an amazing beta!
> 
> Historical notes!
> 
> The Tang Dynasty was very cosmopolitan and modern, especially for the standards of that time. Women were allowed to hold office, possess property, and even play polo and wear clothes that were usually only worn by men.
> 
> [Playing cards](https://theplayingcardfactory.com/history) are thought to have originated during the Tang Dynasty, during a drinking game with Princess Tongchang and her husband's family (hence the "wine cards"). It is thought that the playing cards came to be because of the development of woodblock printing - Crowley basically kicking off from one of Aziraphale's ideas to make his own idea happen!
> 
> [Pomegranate skirts](https://www.newhanfu.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/10/Hanfu-History-Is-there-a-Fashion-Designer-in-Ancient-China-2.jpg) were one of the popular fashions at the time, named because they were the same colour as the fruit! 
> 
> Lastly, the [Cowherd and the Weaver Girl](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Cowherd_and_the_Weaver_Girl#cite_note-7) is one of the more well-known love stories in China. It's said that the lovers were separated from each other by the Goddess who slashed her hairpin across the sky, creating the Milky Way. Zhinu turned into the star Vega, and Niulang the star Altair. They could only meet once a year, on a bridge formed by magpies who were moved by their devotion to one another. The designated day that they meet is the equivalent of Valentines Day in China.
> 
> Whew! Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ineffableomens) and [Tumblr](https://ineffableomensgo.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) or [Tumblr](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)!


	13. Kyoto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I spoke to him. Your _akuma.”_
> 
> Aziraphale froze.
> 
> “My… Is he _here?”_
> 
> She shook her head.
> 
> “He needed to leave,” she said simply. “I’m just repaying a favour, that’s all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a few Japanese words - there is a quick guide in the end notes!
> 
> Thank you to my amazing beta [Offgray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/offgray) who endured several versions of this chapter!

_Kyoto, Japan  
999 A.D._

The snow glittered in the afternoon sun as the imperial guard shivered slightly, even under the heavy leather and iron armour he wore, his breath forming clouds in the cold air. He stood watch as the empress walked in the imperial garden with her ladies-in-waiting, enjoying the last few hours of sunlight of the year.

“Good afternoon, Hinata-san.”

He started. Standing beside him was one of the empress’s ladies-in-waiting. Being quiet and withdrawn, she did not often get along with the other ladies, but the two of them had struck up an unlikely friendship.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” Aziraphale said, bowing. “How goes your writing?”

 _Murasaki_ , they called her, after the shade of wisteria violet she often donned, as she did today. But out of earshot of the court, he called her by her true name, Kyōshi.

“I’m in the middle of writing a section where Genji is having a crisis. I’m not sure what to do with him now,” she sighed.

“It may help you to talk about it.”

“He and the woman he loves are about to be separated,” she explained, her tone musing. “To pursue their separate beliefs. The woman wishes to devote her life to God.”

“Is that so?”

“They will have to live apart for the rest of their lives, never to see each other again. A peak between them, even if they were on the same mountain.”

Aziraphale flinched, her words catching him off-balance, and glanced at her surreptitiously. Thankfully, she hadn’t noticed, her gaze fixed pensively on the corner of the garden where the empress and the other ladies were, her brow furrowed in thought.

“I see,” he finally murmured. “That does sound quite distressing.”

“Yes. But they trust each other completely and know that someday they will be reborn side by side once more. They promise this, even as they leave each other behind.”

At times like this, Aziraphale felt something rather like a twinge of envy for the humans. What was it like for them, with their short-lived existences, to love another so completely that they believed it would endure even past the point of death?

“What will become of them now?” Aziraphale asked.

“Of that, I am not sure. She is already quite ill, you see. Perhaps Genji will reject this idea after all and have them stay together instead.”

“That seems wise. What was her name again?”

“Murasaki.” She smiled slightly at this. “Thank you, Hinata-san. For some reason, it helps me to talk through some of my ideas with you.”

“I’m happy to have been of service, Kyōshi-sama.”

Aziraphale beamed in return, allowing a blessing to flow through his words. Her forehead relaxed slightly, and a look of contemplation appeared on her face.

“While we are on the subject of writing, have you sent out your _nengajo_ yet? It’s the last day of the year, you know.”

“I – I have no family to write to,” Aziraphale said, though he could feel the heat rising to his face in a telling blush. She looked delighted.

“Nevertheless, a distinguished samurai such as yourself must have _someone_ you want to send New Year’s greetings to.”

She did not press him further, but the knowing smile remained on her face as she excused herself to join the empress and the other ladies of the court. Aziraphale saw that she got on quite well with the empress herself, a serious woman who preferred to surround herself with learned women, though the other ladies-in-waiting did not take much notice of her.

Aziraphale exhaled quietly. He and Crowley had met a handful of times in the decades that had passed, though never for longer than a few minutes. Their conversations had been emphatically casual and direct to the point. A blessing here, a temptation there, no interference was to be made. That was all, and nothing more.

 _A peak between them, even if they were on the same mountain._ He knew all too well what that meant. The ache in his chest was familiar by now, a constant reminder of Crowley’s absence.

Aziraphale looked up and saw the tiny flakes of snow beginning to fall. He approached the ladies-in-waiting surrounding the empress, bowing deferentially.

“Murasaki-sama, it is time we returned to the palace. The prayers for _osouji_ will soon begin.”

* * *

At the end of the New Year rituals, Aziraphale had excused himself from joining the evening festivities and retired to his room early. He had no appetite for celebrations tonight. The corner of his mouth turned down when he saw the tiny bottle of _yashio-ori-no-sake_ there – doubtless a gift from the court – recalling the myth that lay behind it. Powerful sake brewed eight times, used by a great hero to cut down an eight-headed serpent with his sword.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers to heat the sake before pouring the clear liquid into the little porcelain cup that lay next to the bottle. He shut his eyes as he allowed the taste of it to run over his tongue, the dusty sweet flavour leaving behind a pleasant aftertaste in his mouth, warming him for just a moment.

He sat at his table, leaning his head on his hand, pouring more sake from the tiny bottle. The end of another thousand years. For a second, his breath caught, thinking of all the time that had passed since he had first stood at the Garden, his wing lifted to shield a demon from the first drops of rain ever to fall on Earth. The longing that suddenly filled him was so intense that it was like a physical pain, a vast emptiness in his chest that was pulling in on itself like a black hole.

Impulsively, he took out a piece of paper, carefully inking his brush.

> _My dear Crowley,_
> 
> _Thank you for all your help during the past century. I hope for your continued esteem in this millennium._

The words were so trite that Aziraphale nearly stopped writing entirely. He didn’t know how to continue beyond the usual pleasantries, or if he even could. The brush hovered tentatively over the paper.

> _I think of you often and wish you well always, everywhere you go._
> 
> _May we meet again soon._

He forced himself to stop before his words spilled past the new lines that had been drawn between them, deeper and clearer than they had ever been before. They had always been careful, but now it was different. Crowley armoured himself with his casual air and his detached words, impenetrable even to Aziraphale. He hadn’t seen Crowley without his dark lenses on in over a hundred years, not since –

 _Forget tonight ever happened,_ Crowley had said, nearly a century and a half ago. The thought of it alone was like rubbing salt into the open wound those words had left behind. Perhaps forgetting came more easily to Crowley, because Aziraphale could not have forgotten even if he wanted to. As if he could ever forget Crowley’s touch, the heat of his fingers, his lips as scorching as a brand. Aziraphale clung to the memory of it, even as it burned.

Every time they met, he found himself searching each minute shift of expression on Crowley’s face, every gesture of his slender hands, every word he spoke, trying to find some sign that Crowley still thought about what had passed between them over a century ago.

In all the years between, there was only one time that Crowley had slipped. Aziraphale had unthinkingly reached up to brush away a stray leaf caught in Crowley’s curls. He stopped himself, realizing he was overstepping, a stammered apology on his lips until he caught sight of Crowley’s golden eyes, ferocious with something like hunger over the rim of his tinted glasses. He was standing much too close, close enough that Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s breath on his skin. Close enough that he could have reached out and tugged him closer until he could taste the softness and warmth of Crowley’s mouth on his.

But Crowley had caught himself and stepped back quickly. Before Aziraphale could speak, Crowley had already turned away, raising a hand nonchalantly in farewell, leaving the fierceness of his golden gaze still burning through Aziraphale.

He could feel his throat closing up as he stared down at the words he had written, the ink gleaming in the moonlight as it dried slowly on the paper. It was laughable how inadequate they were, in place of all the things he wanted to say but could not. _I wish you were here with me, Crowley. I wish we could be celebrating together. I wish –_

For a while, Aziraphale sat in silence, staring out the window at the full moon, thinking of nothing. He was roused from his stupor by a great sound of cheering, bells chiming to welcome the New Year. Quickly, he rolled up his note and sealed it shut with a thought. He closed his eyes, concentrating. To his shock, he felt the slightest hint of demonic power just on the edge of his consciousness.

He opened his eyes immediately, and to his surprise, a black and red lacquered stacked box now lay on the table where his note once was. The glossy lid was slightly warm to the touch. Aziraphale lifted it carefully, his fingers trembling.

Inside lay a magnificent assortment of food, beautifully arranged within the confines of the box’s three layers. Fluffy sweet egg rolls, chestnuts, and turnips painstakingly shaped like chrysanthemums were in the first layer. He lifted it to reveal the second layer, which held sliced carrots and lotus root, black soybeans, and rice topped with grilled red snapper. Finally, the third layer contained a variety of small rolls of rice with fish and seaweed and delicately cooked shrimps.

The fragrance of delicious food filled the room. A smile broke on Aziraphale’s face, even as a lump formed in his throat. Each dish was a wish for the coming year – prosperity, stability, a foreseeable future filled with happiness. Suddenly, he was starving.

He noticed a tiny scroll tucked in carefully next to the egg rolls. He unfolded it gently.

> _また来年。Happy new year, angel._

* * *

The air was pleasantly brisk, and the excitement of spring pervaded the general atmosphere. Aziraphale stood watch as the empress and her ladies walked about in the enormous garden, exclaiming over the new buds that had unfolded themselves into glorious bloom just that morning.

“How is Genji doing these days, Kyōshi-sama?”

“I’ve wrapped up his story quite nicely, I believe. I’m planning the next few chapters, but they will be centred around his son now.”

“I see. Kaoru, wasn’t that his name?”

“Oh, yes! You remember?” She exclaimed, deeply pleased.

“Of course. I’m looking forward to seeing how it will turn out,” Aziraphale said reassuringly.

She smiled at him, but quickly sobered.

“Hinata-san, there was something else I wanted to talk to you about. It might be nothing more than idle gossip, but I thought you should hear about it, just in case.”

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked, concerned by the look on her face.

She glanced about quickly, but most of the ladies were gathered around the empress at the other end of the garden.

“Some of the others have been talking about this… figure. A figure of a man was seen about the halls a few nights ago, walking past our apartments, heading in the direction of the royal chambers.” She lowered her voice. “I would have disregarded it, but the woman who spotted him is someone I consider trustworthy. Not the kind of person that would make up such stories on a whim.”

Aziraphale frowned.

“You speak of the most heavily guarded areas of the palace. It would have been impossible for anyone to get in unnoticed.”

“Yes. That was what we were concerned about.” Her face was pale now, Aziraphale saw. “I thought to tell you in case it might have been an intruder… but what if it was not a person at all?”

It was not the first time Aziraphale had heard the many ghost stories that abounded throughout the palace. A wicked spirit here, the ghost of a woman there. If there had been anything malevolent, he would have undoubtedly noticed it himself.

“Can you describe what she saw to me?”

“She says she saw a man, or something that looked like a man, dressed in black samurai robes and wearing a sword by his side, a _tachi_ with a silver handle. The others have been calling him ‘Kohaku’, because of the way his eyes were glowing in the dark.”

Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat. _Kohaku_ , for amber.

“Thank you for letting me know, my lady,” he replied, his mouth dry. “Do not be afraid. I will watch out for him myself.”

* * *

That very afternoon, Aziraphale received orders that he was to present himself to the emperor immediately. As he walked through the hallways of the palace, he couldn’t help himself – all his senses were straining to find any sign of the apparition that Kyōshi had spoken of. To his disappointment, there was nothing.

The doors of the throne room opened, and he was flanked by three other guards as he entered. He stopped at the requisite distance from the screen which hid the emperor from view and knelt before the Chrysanthemum Throne.

“I require your services, Hinata,” the emperor said, his voice commanding even from behind the screen.

“What do you need, my lord?”

“The gods have come to me in a dream. You must go to the master swordsmith, Munechika. He will forge a sword for me, and it will be one of a kind. The greatest _tachi_ he has ever created. These are my orders. Bring him this message.”

“As you wish.”

Aziraphale answered automatically, but he was thinking hard even as he bowed and was led away. A message from the gods? Gabriel hadn’t mentioned anything like this to him. Everything related to legitimate divine portents to humans was usually relayed to him, as the designated representative of Heaven on Earth. Was it possible the emperor was deluded? But it couldn’t be. He was of sound mind and was beloved by his people for it. It was puzzling.

Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen Gabriel in a while. All his instructions the past three centuries or so had been delivered via divine memo. How strange.

Lost in thought as Aziraphale was, he had made a wrong turn somewhere in the corridors and ended up near the apartments of the ladies-in-waiting. He tried to retrace his steps when suddenly, for a split second, he felt the presence of something brush against his awareness – then a strange sensation, almost like the lightest touch of a warm hand on his face. All his senses were attuned to it now as he strode down the corridor, trying to locate its source. His heart was racing, unsure of what he would find.

But whatever it was, it had faded as quickly as it had come. Aziraphale stood alone in the silent corridor, one hand already grasped around the handle of the _tachi_ he wore on his belt, the disappointment caught tight in his throat.

* * *

“Munechika-san. I bear a message from the Chrysanthemum Throne.”

Aziraphale bowed politely and looked up at the swordsmith. His shoulders were broad, and his kimono was hiked up at the elbows, exposing scars on his forearms from his years at the forge. He made no move to return the courtesy, but only stared at Aziraphale, his jaw set in a hard line.

“If he wants a sword, I cannot do it,” he said abruptly. “Such a blade would require a capable apprentice to assist me, and I have not had an apprentice in years.”

“I’m afraid I must insist, on behalf of the imperial court. You are the best swordsmith in Kyoto, and your services were specifically requested.”

“Did you not hear me? I cannot do it!”

“You cannot refuse a direct order from the emperor, Munechika-san.”

Aziraphale watched him steadily, saying nothing more. After glaring at him for a few moments longer, Munechika stormed off into his forge. Aziraphale considered his options and decided that he’d better keep an eye on the swordsmith – he seemed to be in a rather volatile mood. He walked a short distance away and snapped his fingers, concealing himself from view.

After a few minutes, Munechika peered outside, his gaze keenly observing the surroundings. Upon seeing no one, he quickly exited the forge and began making his way up the path, looking furtively behind him every now and then. Aziraphale allowed him a minute’s head start before following behind.

The path they followed ended at a deserted temple, its buildings rundown and neglected. Dead leaves lay thick on the ground. Clearly, this was not a place that the townspeople frequented.

Aziraphale watched curiously as Munechika entered and lit a stick of fragrant incense before the shrine. He bowed his head and began to fervently pray. His movements were well-practiced, familiar – as though he did this quite often.

Aziraphale suddenly became aware of the same strange aura he had noticed at the palace, just the slightest touch against his consciousness. He looked around quickly but saw nothing. As he glanced back to where Munechika had stood praying, he was surprised to see a woman beside him, talking to him softly. She was so beautiful it was nearly unearthly, shining dark hair framing a delicately shaped face. He frowned, confused by her presence. He was sure there had been no one at the shrine but Munechika and himself.

Concentrating for a moment, Aziraphale took a deep breath and opened the thousand eyes of his celestial body, the eyes that allowed him to see well beyond the mortal plane. With the physical eyes of his human corporation, he could see the image of the woman, but now he could see it was overlaid by the image of a spirit. It appeared human enough apart from the strange glow it was emitting, but it also had nine enormous tails covered with shining white fur.

Unable to reach out any further without alerting them to his presence, Aziraphale continued watching from afar as Munechika nodded, clearly acquiescing to whatever it was she was saying. Together, they left the shrine, heading back down the path to the forge, the woman-spirit leaning on Munechika’s arm.

* * *

The hammer rose and fell repeatedly against the iron, and each metallic blow echoed through the night. There was a loud hiss as the metal was quenched in water, its blinding hot surface subsiding, before coating it in a mix of water and clay. Munechika and the woman-spirit, her long hair now tied back neatly away from her face, heated the iron, folded it, pounded it into shape, and quenched it, again and again and again.

Aziraphale observed it all, fascinated. Already he had lost count of how many times the metal had been reworked, smelted and folded, forged in fire, doused in water.

The rhythmic blows of the hammer sang against the iron. Together, they worked in complete synchronicity, welding and folding the metal, shaping and elongating it until it took on a more recognizable form as the magnificent blade of a _tachi_.

Some hours later, Munechika finally laid the finished blade on the table, its surface gleaming in the fire and the moonlight. Even from a distance Aziraphale could see the fine grain of the steel running down the length of the blade. The woman spoke to him for a moment, touching his arm, and he nodded and entered the house. For a moment, she stood watching, as if to make sure that he was safely inside, before turning precisely toward the direction where Aziraphale stood watching.

“ _Tenshi_. Show yourself.”

Her voice was low, but it reverberated through the silence. Aziraphale stepped out from behind his concealment, his curiosity piqued once more, and she approached him, her feet noiseless against the ground despite her wooden sandals.

Aziraphale could see her fully now, even without his thousand eyes. She was beautiful indeed, and her chin was lifted toward him disdainfully. Her floor-length hair was even lighter than his own, cast in silver in the moonlight. The immense nine-tail flicked warily behind her, and as she came closer, he saw that her eyes were a bright yellow-orange.

He felt the dismay settling like a heavy stone in his stomach. _Kohaku,_ he realised, for her eyes. Disheartened by this revelation, he found that he had nothing to say. He bowed instead.

“Well. When Munechika told me an order had been delivered from the palace, I had not expected to meet a literal divine messenger.”

Her mouth quirked into an ironic smile that did not soften the coldness of her eyes. With the same obstinacy as the swordsmith, she refused to acknowledge Aziraphale’s courtesy.

“I have heard of you, _tenshi._ Angel.”

A huff of breath escaped from Aziraphale’s lips involuntarily in his surprise. For a moment, he thought he had heard Crowley’s voice issuing from her mouth.

“Who are you?”

“I know you saw me at the shrine. I know you know what I am.” She watched Aziraphale, her face a blank mask.

“ _Kitsune._ A fox spirit. I suppose you’re the guardian of the shrine.” Aziraphale stared back, puzzled. “But what do you have to do with a human like Munechika? Why are you helping him?”

“For him to defy the throne would mean punishment, or worse. There are so few still come and visit my shrine faithfully, as he does. I could not abandon him when he badly needed help.”

Her words had the ring of truth to them, but Aziraphale thought of how they had moved as one at the forge. Each movement was in time to a beat that only the two of them could hear, one that they knew by heart. These were bodies that knew each other intimately, far beyond the remote impartiality of a shrine guardian and a faithful believer. Suddenly, he understood.

“Is that all it is?”

She faltered, glancing away for just a moment before flicking her eyes up to his once more.

“Munechika – you see, he is… I love him.”

Her gaze was rebellious now, but Aziraphale could see the fear in her eyes. His bewilderment was beyond words at this revelation. The rules of the spirit world might vary slightly, but this was without question one of the most fundamental laws. Immortals could not love mortals. It was absolutely forbidden. What this _kitsune_ was doing was a defiance of the highest order. Why in Heaven would she divulge something this dangerous? The only disobedience that was worse than this was –

“You understand, don’t you?”

Her expression was different now, a touch more imploring than insolent. Aziraphale’s eyes widened with shock.

“How could you possibly know that?”

“I spoke to him. Your _akuma._ ”

Aziraphale froze.

“My… Is he _here?_ ”

She shook her head.

“He needed to leave,” she said simply. “I’m just repaying a favour, that’s all.”

He shut his eyes, suddenly overwhelmed by the wave of sheer disappointment that washed through him. Crowley must have gotten called away unexpectedly. _See you next year,_ he had written in his note. But now, who knew when Aziraphale would see him again? He exhaled sharply, pulling the unravelling threads of himself together. There were more pressing things at hand.

“Was it you who came to the palace?”

“I took him there, guided him through.” She was watching Aziraphale closely now. “And then once more afterwards, to ensure that the emperor took his message to heart.”

That presence he had felt in the palace – it had been the _kitsune,_ but Crowley had been there after all. Aziraphale remembered suddenly how he had felt the faintest touch of warmth against his cheek for just a fleeting instant. And Crowley had said nothing, had not revealed himself, had not come to Aziraphale? _Why?_ He longed to scream in frustration.

“A demonic portent. I should have known,” Aziraphale said through gritted teeth.

“Yes. I have no such influence over an emperor’s dreams, _tenshi_. Only beings such as you or he can do that. We are neither of Heaven nor Hell, but of someplace in between. My powers are considerable, but much more limited.”

“What does the emperor need the sword for? Did he tell you?”

The _kitsune_ paused for a moment, considering.

“He only told me that I would not immediately see the sword’s purpose, but that the _tachi_ that would be created would be the finest work Munechika has ever done. It would… immortalise him.”

Her voice dropped suddenly over the last few words, and a nearly imperceptible tremor went through her body. A pang went through Aziraphale at the thought of what those words must have cost her to say.

“But how did you even meet him?”

Again, she hesitated. When she spoke again, it was as though she was weighing her words carefully, her assessing gaze fixed on Aziraphale.

“He came to me, told me what was about to befall Munechika. He called himself Shinobu _,_ you know. I could tell it was not his true name, but still it was strangely fitting.”

 _Shinobu._ Endurance was certainly something they had grown well-versed in after all these centuries. But how was it significant enough that it had been the name Crowley had given himself this time around? Aziraphale frowned, trying to understand.

“How peculiar, to meet an _akuma_ that understands the importance of speaking things into being,” the _kitsune_ continued, as if she were thinking aloud to herself. “To name something is to make it so. I know you recognize this as well, though perhaps not in so many words.”

The realization dawned upon Aziraphale as he saw the truth in what she had said. This was the reason why the words he and Crowley spoke were always so careful, so precisely measured, so as not to upset the balance. Whatever they were to each other was constantly hovering between them, rarely acknowledged.

“You know this yourself, and yet you chose… to be with a human.”

“I only used to help him with his work in the forge. He is a gifted smith, and it fascinated me. Before I knew it, it had become… something else entirely.” Her voice was subdued.

Nothing but an arrangement, that was all they permitted themselves to say to each other, but they both knew that was not truly what it was. It was the lie they told themselves because the truth would have been unbearable.

“Perhaps you understand this so well because you have experienced it yourself. Am I right, _tenshi?_ ” Her fox’s eyes narrowed.

Even to the _kitsune,_ he could not say the words out loud. To name it would be to make it real. It would change them forever, and there would be no going back from it. They would have to be unmade and reborn for the naming to be undone. Aziraphale shivered with the weight of it.

“Tell me what he spoke of,” Aziraphale said instead, his tone almost pleading.

He thought suddenly of Crawly, and how he had named himself all those thousands of years ago. What had happened to him, after he had become Crowley?

“You will have to ask him that yourself. Not all of the story is mine to tell. But I give you these words of his freely, because I see something in the two of you that I have never seen before.”

“What do you mean?”

“It is for you to better consider what lies ahead of you now _.”_ She inclined her head thoughtfully. “I am indebted to him. Perhaps it will be easier for you to understand if I show you.”

Her beautiful face shimmered for a moment as she transformed. To Aziraphale’s shock, Crowley stood before him, clad in an elegant black kimono, a _tachi_ hanging from his belt – but the eyes were not quite right. Not the right shade of amber, and the pupils were the wrong shape, but similar enough that it caught Aziraphale off-guard, and he was simultaneously filled with desire and completely repulsed. It was utterly jarring. He shuddered when the _kitsune_ spoke in Crowley’s voice.

“You have to make a choice, now. Can you live with the consequences of what you are about to do? Which would you prefer – to live this life apart, or to risk being destroyed together?”

Aziraphale’s lips parted in disbelief, overwhelmed. For the briefest of moments, the treacherous clench of his heart revealed how quickly he could be deceived. How much he _wanted_ to be deceived. The low tone of Crowley’s voice convinced Aziraphale where the fox’s eyes had not. Nothing was more disorienting to hear the words spoken in that intonation, so familiar and yet so alien.

He wished she would stop _._ The words razed through him like a forest fire, inexorable and unyielding. The only way this could have pained him more would be if it had been Crowley himself who spoke.

“Would it be worth what you would gain, _tenshi_?”

“What I would gain?”

The _kitsune’s_ question, so bluntly put, turned Aziraphale’s thoughts in a direction he had not dared to take before. For the first time, he pictured what his existence might be with Crowley by his side, to be free to touch, to speak openly and without fear of the eyes that were watching them. His pulse raced in shock at the depth of his own yearning _._

"Have you considered the consequences?" The beguiling voice continued.

To have Crowley in his arms for the rest of what precious time they would have together, before Heaven and Hell came for them both – and who knew how much time that would be? A few years? Would it only be a matter of days, or perhaps only mere hours before they came to tear them apart?

The horror of it inflamed him, and the darkness within him stirred, the fury he had once beheld in a mirror's reflection. Aziraphale’s hand tightened around the handle of his _tachi_ instinctively. God Herself would have to rend them asunder in Her wrath before they would be separated from one another.

“Do you truly understand what you have to lose?”

Aziraphale nodded, unable to speak. To speak the nameless thing between them into existence would mean putting Crowley into certain danger. Heaven would smite him, or Hell would execute him, without question and without alternative. He shuddered with dread.

They would not be so merciful to Aziraphale. He thought of a molten pool of sulphur, the stench of brimstone in the air. Doubtless, he would be made to suffer for all time, simply by continuing to exist in one form or another – it would no longer matter which. Not if he were alone.

The fox’s eyes in Crowley’s face watched Aziraphale impassively as he struggled to form words around the dryness of his mouth. He could not hold the _kitsune’s_ gaze any longer _._ He lowered his eyes, defeated. The long centuries of separation were hard enough to bear. What would the rest of eternity be without Crowley?

“Why – why are you doing this?” Aziraphale whispered at last.

“Because I believe you need to hear it. Your _akuma_ thought he was quite clever to give me advice that he has yet to follow himself, but I know better.”

Aziraphale stiffened as the _kitsune_ came closer. If he looked away from the fox’s eyes, he could almost believe it was Crowley, so familiar was every last detail of his face: to the aquiline nose, the hollows of his cheeks, even the brand of the serpent.

A hand came up, cupped itself around Aziraphale’s face – it was the same gentleness of Crowley’s touch, and despite himself, Aziraphale almost leaned into it – but the _kitsune_ ’s hand was cool and soft, not a hint of the warmth of the Crowley he knew.

No matter how well his eyes and ears deceived him, there was no imitating Crowley’s familiar scent, or the heat of his body. But how Aziraphale hungered for Crowley’s touch – he could not bear to pull away from this eerie imitation, even as it repelled him.

Aziraphale’s eyes closed as a thumb brushed lightly over his cheek, and he shivered, caught between loathing and craving, and despising himself for it. For a second, he could not help but imagine that this was truly Crowley, this caress so gentle on his face. The one moment Crowley had acknowledged what lay beneath their arrangement – it was the first, last, and only time he had touched Aziraphale like this.

 _Forget tonight ever happened_. The echo of Crowley’s words came to Aziraphale unbidden, sharp as the crack of a whip, and he recoiled, reflexively turning his face away from the palm on his cheek.

Soft fingers traced the line of Aziraphale’s jaw, mapping the curve of his neck before finally coming to rest on his chest. His breath stuttered as he looked down at the hand pressed directly over his rapidly beating heart. He longed to move away, but desire froze him where he stood. This was _not_ Crowley, he thought to himself feverishly, but he could not seem to will his corporation back under his control.

The _kitsune_ expertly mimicked the rasp of Crowley’s voice, the lift of one brow, the downward twist of his mouth. He could no longer tell if the words she spoke were Crowley’s or her own.

“I have chosen my path, angel. The time will come when you will have to choose yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear readers, thank you to everyone that's been reading this all this time. I was slightly overwhelmed at the reception to the last chapter. I'm terrible at replying to comments on time, but I read and cherish each and every one of them (and all of you)!! We'll be seeing the real Crowley again next chapter, so hang in there!
> 
> I honestly got a bit carried away with the historical references in this one:
> 
> Samurai were considered warrior nobility and were entrusted with the security of the Emperor's estates. 
> 
> Murasaki Shikibu wrote the world's first novel, _The Tale of Genji_ when she was a lady-in-waiting to the Empress during the Heian period. 
> 
> The story of Munechika the swordsmith and the _kitsune_ is based on the Noh drama [Kokaji](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kokaji)! The oldest signed _tachi_ in the world today is believed to be one of his creations. There are lots of different legends about fox spirits, but in many, they are known to be shapeshifters. 
> 
> In Japanese culture, there are a lot of New Year traditions. I've mentioned a few of them here.  
> Osouji: Ritual of cleaning the house to purify it and drive evil spirits away.  
> Nengajo: New Year's greeting cards sent to one's relatives, friends, and business associates  
> Osechi ryori: Traditional foods enjoyed on New Year's day in Japan, packed in special boxes
> 
> Finally, a quick guide to all the Japanese words I used! I hope it wasn't too much of a struggle to read:  
> Hinata: The name Aziraphale uses, "toward the sun"  
> Shinobu: The name Crowley uses, "endurance"  
> Sake: Japanese rice wine  
> また来年: From Crowley's note, "See you next year"  
> Tachi: Traditional Japanese sword worn by samurai  
> Kitsune: Fox spirit  
> Kohaku: Describing Crowley's and the kitsune's eyes, "Amber"  
> Tenshi: Angel  
> Akuma: Demon  
> -sama: Honorific used for someone of higher social status
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) or [Tumblr](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)!


	14. Odernheim am Glan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale’s arms came up and settled hesitantly around Crowley’s shoulders before pulling him closer, his heart pounding with fear and remorse at what he had asked of Crowley, thoughtless of the risks his selfish request had posed. 
> 
> “I’m so terribly sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered anxiously. “Forgive me. I should have never allowed this to happen.”
> 
> “No,” Crowley’s low voice grated out. “S’not your fault.”
> 
> “I should have seen this coming.”
> 
> “Not this. You couldn’t have known about this.”

_Odernheim am Glan, Germany_  
_1112 A.D._

A monk and an abbess walked up the path to the convent, both dressed in the sombre black habits of their religious orders. They were absorbed in their conversation, though they smiled in acknowledgment at the nuns who passed by.

“I cannot thank you enough for accepting this post, Brother Aldebrand,” the abbess said in a low tone. “We have had much difficulty in finding a suitable tutor for her. I assume you have already heard.”

“Yes. News travels fast in a small town.” Aziraphale smiled apologetically.

“It is good that you come prepared. This will not be an easy task.”

They entered the convent, their quiet voices echoing through the corridors as the abbess led them to a small room, where a young girl and her companion sat waiting. The older woman rose as they entered, though the girl remained seated, her hands clasped in her lap.

“Brother Aldebrand, I would like you to meet Jutta. And this, of course, is little Hilde. They entered the convent together a few months ago,” the abbess said, smiling gently.

“It is lovely to meet you both.” Aziraphale was slightly puzzled at how Jutta was examining him with a beady eye. Hilde had not looked up at all.

“I will leave you to it, then. Hilde, do be a good pupil for Brother Aldebrand.” The abbess inclined her head with a significant look at Jutta.

“It was… very kind of you to accept this position,” Jutta said at last. “Might I speak with you for a moment?”

“Certainly. Hilde, would you excuse us?”

Hilde made no sign she had heard him, still staring down at her hands. Aziraphale looked at Jutta, who only raised her eyebrows as she shut the door quietly behind them.

“Brother Aldebrand, I assume that you have heard of Hilde by now. Of what she can do, and what she can see.”

“Yes. I have.”

“You know it will be difficult.” Jutta’s gaze was challenging, her chin lifted slightly as she spoke.

“I do.”

Aziraphale admired her candour. She could not have been older than twenty, yet she spoke with great strength. He could see why she had been chosen as a companion for Hilde.

“None of her other tutors have lasted more than a few days.”

“So I have been told.”

“You may find her… unsettling, at first.”

“Please allow me to be the judge of that.” Aziraphale laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she looked startled. “My dear, I understand your concern. But I do hope to make things different, this time around.”

A blessing flowed from Aziraphale’s hand, to help put Jutta’s mind at ease, and her shoulders relaxed slightly as he let go.

“Why don’t you tell me about her?”

“She just turned thirteen, youngest of ten children. You already know why we’re here, so I won’t go into that. I’ve been trying to teach her to read and write, so she does know her letters.”

“I see,” Aziraphale murmured. “Tell me, what does she like?”

“What do you mean?” Jutta looked confused.

“What does she like to do during her free time, for instance? Does she like to draw, maybe?”

“Oh.” She hesitated. “She’s very quiet, you see. But I have noticed that she often goes to listen to the choir when they are rehearsing. I hear her singing to herself now and again.”

“That’s a start. Thank you, Jutta. You’re free to join us if you wish.” Aziraphale gestured at the door.

“I think it would be best for you to get acquainted without me first.” She gazed at him with a serious expression on her face. “I’ll be nearby if you need me, but I don’t think you will.”

Jutta inclined her head in farewell and walked down the corridor. Aziraphale turned toward the door with a hint of trepidation before entering the room. Hilde hadn’t moved a muscle since they had left. He pulled out the chair in front of her and sat down, setting the bag of books he carried gently on the table between them.

"Hello, Hilde. I'm Brother Aldebrand."

"Aldebrand," she repeated to herself after a long moment in a quiet voice.

"That's right. I'm going to be your new tutor starting today."

She lifted her head slightly to look at Aziraphale. Her eyes, framed by long dark lashes, were an astonishing shade of green, luminous and clear in the ray of sunlight that fell across her face.

"Your name is almost like mine," she murmured. “Hildebrand.”

"Yes. Except you have been named a warrior. I am just old."

Her lips turned up at that.

"But you are a warrior too, Brother Aldebrand."

Aziraphale couldn’t help a small intake of breath, taken aback as he was. He wouldn’t have called it unsettling, but there was certainly something uncanny about her piercing gaze. But he realized that the child had seen his reaction and was withdrawing back into herself, dropping her eyes back to her folded hands.

“That was a long time ago, Hilde. I’m too old now.”

“How old?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“Much older than you, without a doubt.”

Hilde looked up at him, and again in those green eyes, there was that strange sense of being _seen_. He took it in stride this time, not allowing his face to betray the discomfort her gaze was giving him.

“Your name suits you then, but not me,” she said at last.

“How so?”

“A warrior must have a sword. Even old warriors like you. Did you have a sword?”

“I did, once.” A weapon beyond compare balancing perfectly in his grip, its blade ablaze with holy fire.

“What happened to it?”

Aziraphale smiled ruefully, wondering how many more times he would have to answer this question.

“I will tell you the story someday, if you like.”

“Will you not tell me now?”

“I will sometime,” Aziraphale promised. “But before that, we must arm you first, Hilde. A warrior cannot be without a sword, and your sword shall be knowledge.”

She looked disappointed for a moment but brightened as Aziraphale opened the bag and took out the books that lay inside. There was a sheaf of parchment inside, and he laid this before Hilde, along with a bottle of black ink and a quill.

“Now, will you write your name for me?”

* * *

The delicious fragrance of fruit filled the air as Aziraphale wandered about the market. The harvest was good this year, they said, and the stalls were overflowing with produce. Suddenly, he caught sight of a new stall whose display of freshly picked grapes was impressive, even compared to those surrounding it. The seller waved him over with a good-natured smile and offered him a taste, which he gladly accepted.

“These are White Orléans grapes. The best this whole market has to offer.”

They were excellent – sweet and refreshing, the light green skins glossy and firm, each grape bursting with flavour in Aziraphale’s mouth.

“They’re certainly tasty,” Aziraphale said approvingly. “I don’t think I’ve tried this variety before.”

“This is our first harvest, from the vineyard down the river. We’ll have a winery soon as well,” the seller boasted.

“Lovely. I do like wine.”

“Shall I wrap some up for you?”

“Yes, two bunches please.”

Just then, Jutta and Hilde appeared around the corner, Hilde already waving excitedly.

“Oh, make it four instead, please. And if you could wrap the other two separately,” Aziraphale added as he waved back to Hilde.

He’d quite forgotten how quickly humans grew when they were at this age. At fifteen, Hilde was already just a few inches shorter than him, though she seemed as innocent as ever. Jutta smiled indulgently as her charge ran ahead to greet Aziraphale enthusiastically, delighted with the bundle of grapes that he handed to her.

“One bunch for you and the other for Jutta, mind.”

Hilde ran to show the grapes to Jutta, who was lagging behind, laden down with bags. Aziraphale graciously took the heaviest bags from her exhausted arms.

“Oh, thank you, Brother Aldebrand. I’ve still quite a bit of shopping left to do, so I was worried I wouldn’t be able to carry all of it home,” Jutta sighed.

“Brother Aldebrand and I can take them back, can’t we?” Hilde looked at Aziraphale beseechingly, and he laughed.

“Very well. Why don’t you help Jutta with the rest?”

“You’re certain you don’t mind?” Jutta asked, as Hilde took the rest of the bags from her.

“Not at all.”

“We’ll see you later!” Hilde waved goodbye.

As she and Aziraphale started walking up the long path going back to the convent, she somehow managed to balance the bags she carried and open the bundle of grapes Aziraphale had given her at the same time. She quickly popped a grape into her mouth.

“These are wonderful! Where did they come from?”

“Apparently, there’s a small vineyard down by the river that grows them.” Aziraphale took the rest of the bags from her, alarmed that she would drop them at any moment.

“Could we pass by on our way home, you think? I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

Aziraphale didn’t see why not, so they took the longer route back to the convent, following the river as they went. She was much changed now from the child he had met two years ago, a great deal more expressive and forthright with her curiosity.

“Hilde, won’t you be taking your vows soon?”

“Yes.” Hilde pouted somewhat and pulled her long brown hair loose from its untidy bun, skipping ahead while eating grapes. “So let me have my fun now, while I can.”

In the years of teaching her, Aziraphale had seen her nature at close quarters. She was highly intelligent, perceptive beyond her years, sometimes to the point that it surprised even Aziraphale. He hoped that he might be able to help her tame her preternatural sight by giving her an education. It seemed that learning to read and write well had helped her – at times, she seemed almost like a normal girl.

“Have you been writing like I told you to?” Aziraphale called to her.

Hilde slowed down obligingly until she and Aziraphale were walking side by side. She offered the grapes to Aziraphale politely, who shook his head at her and chuckled.

“Yes, Brother Aldebrand. Instead of just writing down everything I see like I usually do, I’ve been trying to write them all together into a story. To see if they make more sense that way.”

Aziraphale glanced at her sharply. There was no telling what the visions would show Hilde. Sometimes they were random flashes of insight into a person standing nearby. Other times, he would find himself trying to explain intricate philosophical concepts to her, to help her make sense of something she had seen, but with great difficulty.

“Tell me about your story.”

“It goes all the way back to the beginning. The Creation. How a soul is formed by its virtues, and how it is tempted away by vices.” She paused for a moment, looking shyly at Aziraphale as they walked. “I’ve been trying to put it to music as well.”

“Oh, that’s new,” Aziraphale said, surprised. “What made you think of it?”

“In one of my visions, I heard the angels singing, as they do in the choir at the convent. I cannot describe how splendid it was.”

“It must have been quite inspiring.”

“Maybe I will sing some of it for you when I have finished part of it. I won’t sound very angelic, though,” she said, grinning. “Did you know that demons cannot sing? I saw that too.”

“Is that so?” Aziraphale murmured. “I… I didn’t know that. Were you quite sure those were demons you saw?”

“Yes. I’m certain of it. They can’t. It was taken away from them.”

Before Aziraphale could respond to this dismaying remark, Hilde exclaimed suddenly, pointing to the vineyard spread out in the valley below them. Row after row of plum trees had been carefully pruned to serve as arbour for the grapevines that had twined themselves around the branches to reach for the sunlight. They walked down together, chatting lightly about other things.

Without warning, Hilde stopped, catching Aziraphale by surprise. There was a strange sense of alertness about her as her eyes swept the vineyard.

"What's the matter?"

"Can you hear that?" She asked, her voice hushed.

Only then did Aziraphale hear it, a low voice singing a wordless melody. Hilde walked slowly in its direction as though entranced, her feet barely making any sound on the ground. He followed behind her uneasily, not knowing what it was she was heading towards, but knowing better than to try and stop her. The scent of grapes was so strong in his nose that it was nearly intoxicating. Faster and faster Hilde went until she was running at full speed. Without warning, she ducked out of sight under the branches of a plum tree.

Aziraphale pushed the heavy vines aside to find that Hilde had come to a halt, staring directly at a gardener who knelt at the foot of one tree with a trowel in his hand, the vines above him running rampant and heavy with grapes. His red hair, the curls unruly as her own, shone bright in the dappled sunlight, in sharp contrast to the canopy of green surrounding him. A thin silver chain around his neck glinted against the black wool of his tunic.

Aziraphale was suddenly so nervous he could barely breathe. Every time he and Crowley met, it always felt as though he was seeing Crowley for the first time. Eternally unchanged, yet never quite the same, as though each time showed him a facet of Crowley that he had never seen before, as many shades and variations as a rainbow.

To his amazement, Crowley only glanced at him for a brief moment before his gaze returned to Hilde. Crowley made no move to stand, watching Hilde like a snake poised to strike.

“Hello. I apologize for intruding. I only wanted to come and see where these grapes were being grown.” She held out the bundle of grapes Aziraphale had bought at the market. “They are lovely.”

Despite his own bewilderment at the sudden turn of events, Aziraphale nearly laughed at the baffled look on Crowley’s face.

“Er… Yeah. Good harvest.” Crowley motioned vaguely at the vines with the trowel.

The child bounded forward and knelt next to Crowley, her keen eyes examining the vines entangled around the plum tree. His eyes were wide with shock even behind the dark lenses he wore, and he looked at Aziraphale incredulously over his shoulder. Aziraphale shrugged as Crowley raised an eyebrow at him.

“I didn’t know this kind grew in the valley,” Hilde said, looking at Crowley. “Or at least, I’ve never seen it before.”

“You just probably haven’t seen it before. Though it might be the first time anyone’s tried cultivating it, actually.” Crowley had apparently given up on trying to understand what was going on. “You can have a look round, if you want. Loads of things growing around here.”

Hilde’s eyes widened in delight as she turned toward Aziraphale, as if to ask permission. After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded, and she beamed with delight, running further into the vineyard and out of sight. Aziraphale dithered for a moment, trying to decide if he should follow, but Crowley had gotten to his feet, the trowel vanishing from sight as he dusted off his trousers.

“What in Heaven are you doing here, Crowley?”

“I should be asking you that. Technically, you’re trespassing on private property.”

Aziraphale coloured slightly. Technically, that was true.

“This is _yours?_ Aren’t you supposed to be stirring up some sort of trouble in France?”

“Nah,” Crowley said, drawing out the vowels. “William the Conqueror can manage just fine on his own. And frankly, I’m tired of the city air. Anyway, what do you want?”

“I – nothing, really. She wanted to come here, so here we are.”

Aziraphale gestured in the direction Hilde had gone, from where there was now a childlike singing reverberating through the trees.

“I didn’t know you were here,” he murmured, too quietly for Crowley to hear, and his hands twisted together anxiously.

“ _Tochter aus Elysium.”_ Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “Caught me by surprise, that did. Been a long time since the last one. She really makes them different every time, eh?”

“She does, rather,” Aziraphale agreed. “I’ve never had to look after one of them like this before.”

“What has this one got, then? Clairvoyance? Prophecy?”

“A little bit of both, I suppose. Gabriel didn’t say exactly, only that she would be given… visions.”

Gabriel had told Aziraphale of it, but he had not mentioned how much Hilde would suffer as a result. Aziraphale had seen it himself – the inability to sleep, the terrible pain that plagued her, so much so that some days she could not even get out of bed. Divine sight was not meant for mortal eyes, and it taxed her body sorely to bear such a gift.

“Hm. How do they feel about that Upstairs?” Crowley cocked his head at Aziraphale inquiringly. “To know that She bestows this upon a human child, when She doesn’t even speak to Her angels?”

“Best not to speculate,” Aziraphale said disapprovingly. Crowley smirked.

“Well, since you’re here, how about I show you around?”

Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat in astonishment at this abrupt shift in the rules of engagement they had been holding. Crowley had never invited him anywhere before – not out loud. Even speaking of anything beyond blessings and temptations had Crowley backing away from him like a skittish cat the past few centuries. Aziraphale watched him warily, trying not to reveal any emotion.

“Your child can come with us if she likes, though she seems to be enjoying herself quite well on her own,” Crowley continued.

“She is hardly _my child_ , Crowley. I’m only her tutor. And her name is Hilde.”

“Whatever you say.”

Crowley reached up and plucked a large bunch of grapes from the vine above his head, passing it to Aziraphale before heading deeper into the vineyard without a backward glance. Aziraphale was completely nonplussed, staring at the grapes in his hands for a long moment in disbelief.

“Coming?” Crowley called behind him, already out of sight.

“Oh, y – yes.”

Aziraphale hurried after Crowley, trying not to trip on the tree roots as he went, vines grasping at his clothes and the bags he carried. Finally, he caught up to Crowley, who was waiting for him by an enormous beech tree with an exasperated look on his face.

“Try to keep up, won’t you?” Crowley rolled his eyes.

“It’s hardly my fault you go so fast. And I saw that,” Aziraphale said, glaring at him.

Crowley grinned and pushed the hanging vines aside to let Aziraphale pass through. As he stepped past the swaying green curtain, a small gasp fell from his lips. At the centre of the vineyard lay a clearing filled with a spectacular variety of plants, and wildflowers of every colour dotted the ground. His mind dimly registered Hilde’s singing – she must be here somewhere. Crowley walked into a large clump of delphiniums and bent forward.

“Oi. Where’d you learn that tune?”

“From you!”

Hilde’s head popped up from the delphiniums, a wreath of violet buds set like a crown on her brown hair, looking for all the world like a newly opened blossom herself.

“Oh, Hilde, you musn’t –”

Aziraphale started forward, his forehead creased with alarm, remembering suddenly a warm bed, Crowley’s profile lit by firelight, the melody of an ancient lamentation sung in a low voice –

But Hilde only gazed up at Crowley, her green eyes guileless and full of light, beaming at Crowley, who stood towering over her. Aziraphale was stunned to see that Crowley’s shoulders remained relaxed, not hunched around his ears as he was wont to do when he was taken by surprise.

“You’re a quick study.”

“You have a good voice, sir…” Her voice trailed off as she looked up at him expectantly.

“Cr – Christoff.” Crowley’s eyes flicked up at Aziraphale, whose mouth had dropped open, and he smirked.

“Christoff,” Hilde repeated to herself softly. “Will you teach me about the plants too? If you have the time?”

“Can’t say I know much about them, child.”

“You are being modest, sir,” Hilde said, smiling warmly. “They are too beautiful to have been raised by someone who knows nothing about them.”

The words clicked in Aziraphale’s head. For a moment, he was astonished at the truth of them. The garden was magnificent, and Crowley had made it so. He caught Crowley’s eye and made a pleading face. _Think of it as helping me out with a blessing._

“Oh, alright,” Crowley sighed. “Don’t expect much, though.”

Hilde laughed and bounded off into the clearing, pointing out shrubs and blooms to Crowley with a veritable torrent of questions. Humans considered fifteen years to be a womanly age – were she not in the convent, she would be married by now. But here, she could be very much the child that she still was. Aziraphale gazed fondly at the two of them, the bright curiosity in Hilde’s face and Crowley’s stilted answers that grew more and more voluble the longer they conversed.

Crowley’s expression shifted suddenly, his eyes fixed on Hilde. Aziraphale, with mounting dread, saw that her eyes were wide and had the eerie look that Aziraphale had come to associate with her divine sight – at once seeing nothing and seeing everything. He turned to look at Crowley and shook his head minutely, pleading him silently not to move for fear of what Hilde might see, fearing that she would perceive far too much. His heart was hammering against his ribs with apprehension.

For several breaths it was as if time stood still, and there was no sound but the rustling of the leaves and the occasional birdcall. Suddenly, Hilde spoke into the silence, and her voice had a strange ringing quality to it that he had never heard before.

_"The Lord God sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was take."_

Slowly, Hilde turned her head to gaze at Aziraphale, an uncomprehending look in her green eyes. She cried out suddenly and dropped to the ground among the flowers, eyes screwed shut with pain.

“It hurts,” she sobbed, clutching her head in her hands. “It hurts so much.”

Aziraphale bent over her, his brow furrowed with concern. Gently, he laid his hand on her head, and she crumpled to the ground with a soft sigh, her eyes closed. Crowley looked at him in shock.

“What did you –”

“She’s just asleep. I need to take her back to the convent.”

To his surprise, Crowley wordlessly started taking the many bundles Aziraphale carried, carefully tucking the bunch of grapes into one of them as he did so.

“Come on. I’ll walk you there.”

Aziraphale knew better than to thank him, but his heart grew warm at this sudden display, even through his worry for Hilde. He knelt and scooped her up gently in his arms. Together, he and Crowley started in the direction of the convent. For a few minutes, they walked together, neither of them speaking.

“Is that the price of having the visions, then?” Crowley said at last, breaking the silence.

The child stirred despite the blessed sleep that Aziraphale had laid on her. He nodded, not knowing what to say.

“Bloody hell. Does it happen often?”

“The visions or the headaches? They happen together, always.” Aziraphale sighed.

“Why give them divine sight at all?”

The words sound like they had been wrenched from Crowley’s throat as Hilde twisted in Aziraphale’s arms, her brow furrowing in pain. Crowley stopped Aziraphale with a light touch on his shoulder. To Aziraphale, it felt like being lit on fire. Crowley quickly dropped his hand, a slight flush rising to his cheeks.

“Let me try something.”

“What?”

“It won’t hurt her, I promise.”

Aziraphale watched him suspiciously as Crowley laid a hand on Hilde’s arm, concentrating. Aziraphale felt the demonic power flow through Hilde’s body as she once again relaxed against his chest, the crease in her forehead smoothing.

“What did you do?”

“Something like a sedative, I guess. Dunno how else to describe it.”

How many times over did Aziraphale owe Crowley for today? His heart was in his throat, but he dared not speak, fearful of upsetting this mysterious shift to something like ease between them. Instead, they continued walking. Aziraphale could already see the convent in the distance. He had to say something before he lost his chance.

“How about I bring a nice bottle of wine later? To return the favour.”

Crowley snorted.

“You realize I own a vineyard, don’t you?”

“Yes, but today when I was at the market, I found out that you don’t have a winery yet, not this soon after your first harvest, and I do have a particularly lovely selection of wines that I’ve been –” Aziraphale was rambling, desperately trying to fill the uncomfortably long silence when Crowley cut him off suddenly.

“Couldn’t hurt, I guess.”

* * *

“Hello, my dear. How are you feeling?”

Hilde blinked at the ceiling, her green eyes still clouded with sleep, a thick tartan blanket tucked around her.

“I just had the strangest dream.”

“Dreams do tend to be quite strange, I’m afraid.”

“I dreamt an angel carried me home to my bed, and a demon sang me to sleep.” 

“I see,” Aziraphale said nervously.

"But then… demons can’t sing.” Hilde looked bewildered, as though she was trying to make sense of what she had seen. “That’s how I knew it was a dream.”

“Don’t think of it now. For now, what’s important is for you to recover.”

He took the seat next to the bed. Hilde shifted restlessly, her voice just above a whisper. Her eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s face, imploring.

“Will I always be like this? Why does it hurt me so?”

Aziraphale was filled suddenly with a grief that was all too familiar, hearing his own doubts voiced so plainly. _Beyond understanding and incapable of being put into words._

“I wish I knew,” he said with a sigh, smoothing the blanket gently over her feet. “This is a gift, Hilde, and we are only given what we are strong enough to bear. What do I always tell you?”

“That I must arm myself.”

“That’s right, little warrior. I will help you write it down. That’s helped you in the past, hasn’t it?”

Hilde stared at the ceiling and made no answer.

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale cast his mind about for something to distract her. “Why don’t I tell you a story?”

Still no answer. Aziraphale took a breath and continued.

“You asked me some time ago why I no longer have a sword, do you remember? You see, I gave it away.”

Hilde’s head turned slightly, though she still gazed resolutely upwards. Aziraphale, encouraged, went on.

“Many years ago, I had a sword that had been crafted especially for me, because I had been assigned as a guard, to watch over a husband and wife who needed to be kept safe,” he said quietly. “But then something happened, and we were given instructions that they must leave at once, because they had greatly displeased… my lord.”

Aziraphale paused and looked at Hilde. Her face was turned in his direction now, though she did not meet his gaze or utter a word.

“The task fell on me to give them the news. But I had kept them safe for so long. I could not bear to think of them being sent out to journey into the world, vulnerable as they were. I gave the man my sword, so that they would have some sort of protection. It wasn’t much, but it was all that I could do before I shut the gate behind them.”

“What happened to them?”

Aziraphale smiled inwardly, though it made him weary to relive that fateful day so long ago that he had never spoken of to anyone but Crowley.

“They made a life for themselves. I’d like to think it was a good life.”

“You helped them,” she said softly. “Even if you shouldn’t have.”

“I suppose I did.”

“Were you punished for it?”

“No,” Aziraphale said after a long moment. “I wasn’t. I hid what I had done from my lord. It… shames me.”

He exhaled, looking down at his hands. She had never spoken to him again after that.

“You did what you thought was right, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Then that is all anyone can do,” Hilde said firmly.

* * *

“I still think this is a bad idea.”

“Oh, but she was so excited. She loves plants, you know,” Aziraphale sighed. “Do give me this one. She never used to ask for things for herself before. It will be something for her to look forward to.”

Crowley shrugged as he poured wine out of a bottle into his cup. He missed slightly, spilling a few drops onto his hand. He made a sound of annoyance, inspecting the mess. Aziraphale couldn’t help but stare as Crowley lifted his hand to his lips, his tongue darting out over his fingers to catch the drops. When Crowley took a drink from his cup, Aziraphale let out a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding and looked away.

It pained him suddenly as the thought of it brought to mind a different time, a different place. Crowley’s hand covered in pomegranate juice, staining his fingers dark red, the look of horror in his golden eyes. Aziraphale shivered and pushed the memory down. He quickly took a sip of wine to distract himself, only half-listening to Crowley.

“Do you want more?”

Aziraphale blinked, confused.

“What do I want?” He flushed slightly, not realizing what he said until the words had already left his lips. “I mean, want more of what?”

“More _wine_. Are you even listening to me?”

“So sorry. I got lost in my head for a moment.”

“Well, no wonder,” Crowley said, gazing at him seriously. “There’s way too much clutter in there.”

The teasing shocked a laugh out of Aziraphale. He supposed he would have to resign himself at some point to never fully understanding Crowley and his ever-changing moods, his endless depths. Even after all these thousands of years of knowing him, Crowley never failed to surprise him.

Perhaps it was greedy to want all the variations of Crowley that existed, to see every single iteration of Crowley there was in every era – if this was all they would ever have, he would be content. It would have to be enough.

“Aziraphale, you’re doing it again,” Crowley groaned. “Tell you what, I _will_ open another bottle. You look like you need it.”

He got up and dug out another dusty bottle of wine from a cupboard. Aziraphale, not wanting to overstay his welcome in case Crowley suddenly decided that he had had enough of his company, had only brought a single bottle with him. Crowley uncorked the new bottle with a wave of his hand and filled Aziraphale’s cup nearly to the brim.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in black before.”

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley quickly, but his expression was inscrutable, his eyes hidden from view.

“The religious order’s standard-issue cassock, that’s all.”

“Not quite to your liking, is it?”

Oddly enough, it sounded like it wasn’t a question. Aziraphale’s eyebrows drew together in confusion.

“I didn’t say that. It… rather reminded me of you, actually.”

The words hung in the air for a moment. Aziraphale feared he had said too much, his pulse already quickening with trepidation at Crowley’s reaction, but he only turned away, smirking.

“If you’re telling me I’ve ever put anything on that even _vaguely_ resembles priestly vestments, I’m going to change my entire wardrobe completely.”

“You’ve already named yourself Christoff. It wouldn’t be too far off,” Aziraphale retorted, though he was so relieved he could barely think.

“Jesus was a good kid,” Crowley objected. “‘Sides, can you blame me? There I was, quietly doing a bit of weeding, and out of nowhere a child of Heaven descends upon me. If your little girl had been any holier, she would have set me on fire.”

“She’s only got divine sight, Crowley, it’s not like she’s been sanctified.”

“You can’t say anything, either. _Aldebrand?_ Did you pick out a name to match hers?”

“Oh, do shut up.”

Crowley laughed. For the first time in centuries, Aziraphale’s heart felt unaccountably light in his chest.

* * *

Crowley had been away for months, and Hilde spent most of the winter in bed after she was laid up with a bad cold. The unusually long winter made the spring afternoons spent in Crowley's vineyard all the more pleasant. The little clearing was brimming with colour now, the crocuses and daffodils and tulips flourishing gaily in the warmth of the sun.

Aziraphale sat with a book held open in his hands, though he had not turned a page since they had arrived. Crowley was arguing with Hilde about the best way to plant the flower bulbs, his face animated in a way Aziraphale rarely saw, and snippets of their conversation floated his way every now and again. He was glad for an excuse to watch them, to drink his fill of Crowley and his presence.

Aziraphale wished he could take the peace of these days and pour it into a glass bottle sealed tight, safely preserved and stored for the long years in between when Crowley's absence was a cold ache in his chest. If only he could stop time, he would keep the garden encased in one eternal moment – an ageless spring afternoon, the air fresh and clean and smelling of newly upturned earth, with the flowers in full bloom and the sunlight like a crown on Crowley's bright hair, incandescent as a halo.

Hilde's clear voice lifted in song as her hands dug busily in the earth, weeding among the buds that were unfurling themselves slowly. It was a familiar tune, a springtime ballad often sung in the village. To Aziraphale's astonishment, the low pitch of Crowley's voice joined hers, resonating and blending in surprising harmony for just a few bars before he stopped, as though embarrassed. Hilde turned to beam at him.

"I wish you would sing more," she said to Crowley. "It's lovely when you do."

Crowley made a strangled noise, and Aziraphale chuckled to himself. _Ridiculous demon_.

"I – I don't sing. Not really. Not much."

"Is this like the time you said you didn't know much about plants?"

They carried on bantering, Hilde's laughter echoing through the trees. Aziraphale was momentarily distracted by a thrush alighting on a low branch of the nearest tree. As he peered closely, he noticed that there was a tiny nest concealed in the crook of the branch where the thrush's mate waited. He smiled at the sight.

Aziraphale abruptly noticed that the singing and laughter had ceased. He turned just in time to see Hilde collapse into Crowley's arms, limp as a rag doll, knocking Crowley's glasses off his face. She was a slip of a girl, but Aziraphale was dismayed to see Crowley staggering under her weight.

He rushed forward as Crowley lowered her gently onto a patch of soft grass. He stopped short a few feet from them at the sight of Crowley kneeling on the ground next to Hilde, bent double with his arms wrapped around himself. A familiar leaden feeling of dread was creeping into Aziraphale's stomach. He knelt and placed his hand on Hilde’s head.

“Crowley, I’m going to take Hilde inside. Is that alright?”

The only response Aziraphale got was a stiff nod. He lifted Hilde gently and carried her into the small house, laying her carefully on the bed – she slept deeply, but Aziraphale could feel her awareness curled up into a tight ball inside her. What had she seen?

Crowley still had not come in, and Aziraphale was beginning to feel deeply alarmed now. He went back outside, intending to call Crowley in. But then he saw Crowley still huddled on the ground, just as he was when Aziraphale had left him.

"Crowley?"

There was an interminable moment where Aziraphale steeled himself for the worst before Crowley finally looked up at him. Fear gripped Aziraphale by the throat at the sight of Crowley’s face, contorted as though caught in unbearable agony, his golden eyes desperate.

“Angel…”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. Crowley hadn’t called him that in over two hundred years.

“What’s wrong?”

“She – she said…”

Crowley seemed unable to continue. Aziraphale slowly bent down and knelt on the ground next to him, every movement telegraphed, as one would approach a wounded animal. Crowley simply stared at Aziraphale, his eyes wide and glazed over with terror.

“Tell me, please. Tell me what she told you,” Aziraphale pleaded.

The fear in Crowley’s eyes made Aziraphale’s heart throb painfully. He reached out a hand tentatively, giving Crowley a chance to turn away if he wanted. When he did not, Aziraphale traced his fingers over the sharp plane of Crowley’s, cupping his jaw softly. For a second, Crowley’s eyes closed as he turned his face slightly towards Aziraphale’s palm, as though seeking out his touch, his face flushed burning hot.

“What’s the matter? Why won’t you say it?” Aziraphale searched Crowley’s face, almost afraid to understand what was causing him such distress.

“I can’t,” Crowley bit out, as if each word cost him a great effort.

“Why not?”

“I can’t,” he repeated. “But I can… show you. If you’ll let me.”

Crowley shivered suddenly, though the afternoon sun shone brightly in the sky overhead. Aziraphale nodded as Crowley shakily lifted his hand and laid it over Aziraphale’s hand on his face.

Suddenly, Aziraphale’s mind was awash with images that he could barely understand – an explosion of cosmic proportions, the chaos of light and iridescent starstuff swirling together as though pulled by an unseen hand, galaxies of smoke and gas within which new stars were formed and born, a system of binary stars burning in the darkness, forever caught in each other’s orbit, bound together so closely that from a distance they appeared to be a single star.

The images came faster and faster, blurring into each other and becoming ever more incomprehensible until they were reduced to nothing but a series of confusing impressions. Only a few stood out to Aziraphale – bells tolling, an awful metallic scent, the clash of steel against steel, a great and terrible voice, then a sick, swooping sensation that felt uncomfortably like… _falling_.

Aziraphale gasped as the unceasing flow of images abruptly stopped. For a moment, he was completely disoriented. He stared at Crowley, who had dropped his hand and turned his face away from Aziraphale. He buried his head in his hands, his shoulders visibly shaking.

Crowley, ever the consummate survivor, strong and brave and true – Aziraphale had never before seen the cracks in the façade Crowley always maintained to keep so much of himself hidden and protected, not like this. How could he have been so _careless,_ so irresponsible to have asked Crowley to take on such a dreadful risk? He may as well have asked Crowley to walk through fire for him.

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale’s throat was tight around the words. “I am so sorry.”

Aziraphale heard a low, choked sound and his heart gave way to his fear and guilt. He moved closer to Crowley, tugging his hands gently away from his face. To Aziraphale’s bewilderment, Crowley let out a long sigh and unexpectedly leaned towards him, resting his forehead against Aziraphale’s shoulder, as though he no longer had the strength to hold himself upright.

Aziraphale’s arms came up and settled hesitantly around Crowley’s shoulders before pulling him closer, his heart pounding with fear and remorse at what he had asked of Crowley, thoughtless of the risks his selfish request had posed.

“I’m so terribly sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered anxiously. “Forgive me. I should have never allowed this to happen.”

“No,” Crowley’s low voice grated out. “S’not your fault.”

“I should have seen this coming.”

“Not this. You couldn’t have known about this.”

For a few seconds, Aziraphale held Crowley in silence, one hand cradling Crowley’s head tucked snugly under his chin, the other hand rubbing circles on Crowley’s back as he trembled violently, a full-body shudder that Aziraphale couldn’t seem to soothe. Wracked with guilt as he was, he couldn’t bring himself to think about what Crowley had shown him just yet – not now, not while Crowley lay in his arms, heart flayed open and vulnerable.

“Whatever she said…” Aziraphale gently ran his fingers over Crowley’s hair. “I’m here. Let me carry it for you, Crowley, please.”

Slowly, Crowley’s arms came up and wrapped around Aziraphale, his face hidden against Aziraphale’s chest, his breath coming shallow and fast, his hands gripping the fabric of Aziraphale’s tunic like a lifeline.

“I’ve got you, Crowley. You’re safe here, with me.”

Aziraphale’s arms tightened around Crowley, who clung to him like he was about to fall apart, as though the only thing still holding him together was the strength of Aziraphale’s embrace.

“Aziraphale–”

Aziraphale pressed his lips against the soft red curls, helpless against the jagged edges of Crowley’s hurt pressing sharply against his heart.

“My Name, angel,” Crowley finally said, and he sounded as though the words were being torn from his throat, scraped out from somewhere deep inside him that was filled with an indefinable sorrow. “She said my Name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, she said Crowley's original Name, the one that was given to him when he was first Created. No, I am absolutely not weeping.
> 
> Much love for my amazing beta, [Offgray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/offgray) who stuffed my head full of thoughts for this chapter. We've broken the Chang'an record - this chapter clocks in at just a little under 7,000 words.
> 
> Your usual dose of historical notes:
> 
> Saint Hildegard was a German Benedictine abbess, writer, composer, philosopher, Christian mystic, visionary, and polymath. She is one of the best-known composers of sacred monophony, as well as the most-recorded in modern history. She has been considered by many in Europe to be the founder of scientific natural history in Germany. [Whew! What a resume.] She had a teacher, a monk named Volmar who first encouraged her to write her visions down.
> 
> Her name _Hildebrand_ means "battle guard" or "battle sword." _Aldebrand_ means "old guard" or "old sword."  
> Crowley's name _Christoff_ means "bearer of Christ" lmao.
> 
> "Tochter aus Elysium" is "daugher of Elysium" in German. This is very much a reference to Beethoven's _Ode to Joy._
> 
> It's just occurred to me we're more than halfway through now. Thanks to everyone that's stuck around this long!! Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) or [Tumblr](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)!


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